


bang the doldrums

by gleed



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anxiety, Drug Dealing, M/M, Modern AU with Magic, Recreational Drug Use, Short Chapters, Whelp here we are End Of Days, homophobic slur but only briefly, just realised that that's a thing i probably rlly should be tagging and i haven't been lmao oops, mages are a thing but the others races like elves and dwarves etc. arent, my hawke is aggressively purple if you hadn't noticed already, one sided Handers kinda?????, the fenhawke becomes relevant later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleed/pseuds/gleed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mages are like drug dealers, in the fact that they’re the stuff of stranger danger PSAs and backwater night club basements, but you probably know one who hides their business behind a blue collar, big smile façade and they’re probably not the dangerous people that you’re lead to believe. Garrett Hawke loved using that analogy – one, because he was a mage, and two, because he was a drug dealer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Garrett Hawke was sixteen years old he bought his school lunches with the pocket money of deviant, blue collar rich kids, who felt they needed to rebel against their parents who spoilt them to souring. He ran a fair business – one that involved charging them for the weed, rolling it into clumsy spliffs, and pressing it between their perfect teeth behind the pool changing rooms. Sometimes he’d throw in a free kiss, if the daddy’s boy with a rebellious streak was cute enough, and if they tipped him enough to soften his back pocket.

His sort were the ones with shapeless blonde hair and confused blue eyes. The ones who sucked on the spliff with the same look of newly discovered wonder as when they sucked gratuitously on Garrett’s tongue. The ones who crashed the quickest, the ones who burned the brightest.

The truth was Garrett Hawke was a disaster magnet. The truth was Garrett Hawke didn’t care what he was getting into as long as there was something in it for him. The truth was Garrett Hawke yellowed at nothing, and the day he took the coward’s road was the day he pressed money into a stranger’s palm and had them hit him square in the skull with a shovel.

When Garrett Hawke was eight years old he’d fallen out of a tree, screamed like a goose being stabbed, and broken the light chorus of his father’s laughter when the pile of leaves that softened his fall spontaneously combusted. More goose like crying had ensued, and Garrett’s father had held in firm arms and been given a firmer look. Stoic Leandra Hawke had held her head in her hands, elbows propped on the kitchen table, eyes screwed up like she hadn’t agreed to get knocked up the handsome stranger who snorted strange powders at strange clubs and could turn the air around his hands into fire or ice.

“There’s a chance it will take after me.”

Had been the warning, eight years and seven months prior, when Malcolm Hawke had lain his head against Leandra’s swollen belly and pretended he didn’t feel the electricity tingling between his cheek and the womb.

When Garrett Hawke was ten years old he’d seen an old man be wrestled to the ground in the middle of the street. He’d clung to his water bottle as he watched lightning crackle out of the old man’s hand, ripple across the pavement. One police man had straddled his back, held a truncheon to where his skull connected to his spine. The other ground his heel into the old man’s wrist. Garrett had felt an unfamiliar ache in his throat, and when his father emerged from the news agent’s with a rolled up newspaper and a bottle of Lucozade, he’d snatched Garrett away from where he sat teetering on the edge of a fountain, and dragged him through the street until he couldn’t see the confrontation anymore.

When Garrett Hawke was eleven years old his Game Boy had been plucked from his hands and he was sat at the dinner table, where he rested his chin on a placemat and pretended to listen to his mother and father’s stiff conversation until his father said, “You can’t tell anybody what you can do with your hands.” and as if on instinct Garrett had rubbed his fingertips together and felt a crackle of sparks between them.

When Garrett Hawke was thirteen years old he held a twin on each arm on a blustery autumn day to watch his father’s coffin be lowered into the earth. He went a week and a half making meals every night because his mother couldn’t speak, couldn’t eat, couldn’t do anything without bursting into tears.

When Garrett Hawke was fourteen years old he’d sat at the back of the bus in sweltering summer heat, been offered a spliff from a friend of a friend who had dark eyes and sloppy grin, and fallen down a hole that he was yet to climb out of.

He found out where he could buy weed just three weeks later, and we already know what happens next.

It was different in college.

In college everyone already had a dealer, and they didn’t bother with the kid who hadn’t yet given up his 90s jacket and apparently didn’t know how to shave. In college no one cared that Garrett Hawke – who now only went by Hawke because his first name was an invitation to be nicknamed _Garry_ – could roll perfect spliffs and light them with the tip of his finger. In college everyone had a bong stowed under their bed, and Hawke had taken the advice when, at a house party with no lights or friends, he’d accidentally walked into a man half his size because he was too busy rolling his spliff.

The man who barely stood to Hawke’s chest, with his thin golden hair and half empty cup of schnapps, had asked why he didn’t just use a bong. It must have been by fate’s hand that they got along so well, and the man – whose name was Varric, who loved writing, lying, and wringing his hands around the worn neck of a guitar fondly named Bianca – had leant Hawke money to buy a bong, with a wink and, “Promise me you’ll let me use it.”

By the end of his first year at college Hawke finally had a friend who didn’t only hang out with him because he warded off creepy boys and attracted pretty girls. It was something of a testament to their years to come that they bonded by sucking off a glass bowl and laugh-cried together when they watched _UP_ after guzzling half a bottle of vodka on Varric’s birthday.

Hawke’s first college summer was one that he often recounted as the best of his life, as when he accidentally froze Varric’s cheap pack of Camels and sputtered himself into oblivion whilst trying to explain, Varric had just shrugged and said, “Mages are like drug dealers. They’re nicer than you think.” Hawke, there ever after, stole that analogy every time someone talked smack about anyone who used magic. He elaborated on it when Varric jokingly called royalties, saying that if he changed it up it wouldn’t really be _his_ anymore.

That same summer, after rolling from bar to bar to bar, found Hawke and Varric black out wasted in an indie bar where they only sold craft beer and everyone wore a hat. Some girl with a witch’s laugh had gone around tugging the beanies off of every hipster she saw. Hawke was glad he hadn’t worn his, he also regretted it, because when one of the guys – obviously a friend – had tried to tug it back off her and groaned, _“Isabela!_ ” when she threw it across the room, Hawke decided he wanted to be friends with her. Hawke wanted to be friends with her because he laugh was golden, her labret was golden, her confusing eyes were golden and Hawke wanted to know what hell _else_ was.

When Hawke had slurred that at her through some gross beer he’d only ordered because the guy next to him was drinking it, her eyes had flashed like floodlights, and Varric – the only one who’d caught on – had to hurriedly explain that Hawke didn’t like girls _like that_. She’d just cackled, said, _“I do!_ ”, and ordered herself a cocktail that Hawke didn’t think he could pronounce the name of.

Three weeks later, after spending the entire night throwing popcorn into Isabela’s open mouth and trying to convince Varric to buy him a puppy, Hawke had blearily taken a morning jog, where he ran into a small protest group whose picket signs screamed something about freeing the use of magic. He’d stopped for maybe half a second, flexed his fingers and felt something hot pool in his palms. Maybe it was him barely just bringing magic to the surface of his skin that alerted it, but two sets of eyes settled on him like sniper dots, and he’d never felt more intimidated by a man in cat slippers and a girl with deer eyes.

He’d met the man in slippers again the next day – picking up painkillers from the chemist. There had been no one else in the shop, and it was beyond easy to lean over the counter to where the man stood in that awful tea green colour, and whisper something about magic. Hawke let a spark crackle over his knuckles for emphasis, grinning when the man’s shoulders loosened. His name was Anders, and when Hawke walked back to his dorm to tell Varric he’d found another mage, there was a new number in his phone.

The end of his first college summer brought with it Varric’s frequent ‘bong bonding’ visits, Isabela swinging in with far too many bottles of expensive liquor, Anders sitting tired and cross-legged on Hawke’s dorm floor where he smoked and complained, and the deer eyed girl – Merrill – who Hawke had seen at the protest, stumbling in on their business after Anders had told Hawke that she, “So wanted to meet someone else like her.”

Whilst Merrill was sweeter than condensed milk – and about the same colour – she also had wrists like frayed string and used razors in magic like Hawke used his knuckles.

College was four years of getting drunk, smoking cheap cigarettes and binge studying the night before, and Hawke couldn’t say that he didn’t enjoy living life like a recovering addict who was doing _terribly_. It was hard not to laugh about things when life went on in a blurry trundle, and Hawke accidentally made friends with a police officer because he made stiff lipped, red headed Aveline laugh during a breathalyser test; adopted a dog he found starving in an alley way when he was trying to find short cuts home; and went to church a total of three times because he felt guilty for making out with total strangers at random house parties, and as a result ended up picking up the number of steeple fingered Sebastian who worked there, and made out with him too.

The end of college found Hawke unemployed, confused after kissing Anders when he was very drunk, and trying to buy a suit for his sister’s funeral when his wallet was empty all but for a condom he only kept in there to show off.

He didn’t cry, but he didn’t go to the wake either. Instead he stormed home to the awful flat that he and Varric had put themselves up in, ripping at hit too tight tie that used to belong to his father, and kicking off his too shiny shoes that also used to belong to his father.

Varric hadn’t batted an eyelid when the emotion came out all at once, and Hawke set fire to a vase of flowers on the kitchen table.

What Varric had done was offer Hawke a modest glass of Scotch, order Chinese and light heartedly dare Hawke to snort the powdery residue that had once been a bouquet of tulips. They’d laughed together, though Hawke’s was strained, and when Varric left the room to check on Hawke’s pain in the back dog who liked to chew shoes, Hawke had actually considered snorting the powder left behind.

He had not imagined that it would actually have an effect.

The rest of the night consisted of Hawke lying on his back in the living room and babbling down his phone to Anders about magic’s effects on everyday objects whilst trying not to sound as morose as he was. Varric sat on the sofa, shovelling noodles into his mouth and writing down lists of things Hawke could set fire to and then snort.

The list was not only impressive, but also the corner stone that shoved Hawke out of being unemployed, and turned him back into the sixteen year old dealing weed behind the changing rooms. Except he wasn’t sixteen anymore, and he wasn’t holding up tiny zip-lock bags full of what could have been oregano for all his clients knew. This time he was sad, early twenties, unable to let anything go easily, and using playing cards to brush powders of all colours and consistencies into thin lines.

He sold his first line – a pale yellow powder made from the same type of tulips that Hawke had combusted out of grief, hesitantly named _Dutch Oven_ – to one of Varric’s ‘contacts’, who had sat unmoving in a chair for two hours before laughing hysterically, calming down again and looking Hawke dead in the eye and muttering,

“This is the best high I’ve ever had.”

As Hawke had watched the woman – still off her head – leave his apartment, he rubbed the fifty pounds he’d charged in between his fingers, accidentally singed it, and then placed it down on the kitchen counter where he promptly continued to happy cry for half an hour.

Varric bought/scavenged for everything he could find, Hawke blew it up, and they charged slowly rising prices for the magical ashes of something completely mundane. They’d found the perfect get rich quick scheme, and as long as Hawke didn’t screw it up with his motor mouth and tendency to be a sarcastic know it all, they could keep it all under lock and key easily.

For three long, light working years, everything was fine and dandy, and Hawke was setting fire to things for a living. Varric had all the time in the world to work on his book whilst he earned easy money, and Hawke could play with his dog for hours when he wasn’t blowing up an orange or a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_.

Sometimes he fell asleep in his car, still parked up outside his apartment, and could sleep soundly in the confidence that he knew no one would break into his car and try to mug him. No one was going to do that because that’s what criminals do, and around her Hawke was basically a _king_ in the criminal hierarchy. He could leave a full wallet or expensive watch on show, and know that no one was breaking his windows open as long as he was giving them something to mess up their nasal cavity and give them hallucinations for a few hours.

Hawke was awoken, one particular night, to knuckles rapping on his window and a low voice rattling through the metal of his car.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, you’ve left your lights on.” Varric was wrenching open the door as soon as Hawke flicked off child-lock, pulling his man-child of a best friend out of the car and dragging him towards the building. “Your battery’s gonna hate you for that.”

Hawke lazily pointed his keys at the car, waited for the musical _blip blip!_ and pushed open the cracked glass panel doors at the foot of their building. He could hear the jangle of house keys that made Varric sound like Santa running late, and trusted his ears enough to close his eyes and just follow the sound of Varric sauntering up the stairs.

“Yeah but it’s not as if I actually drive far,” Hawke said, opening his eyes when he heard Varric shove the keys into the door and move inside, “I pick up booze and cigarettes and something to burn and then I come back, I’m not driving to an overrated family reunion or something.”

Hawke dropped a plastic shopping bag of said booze, cigarettes and something to burn on the kitchen counter. He clipped open a can of cider and watched as Varric eyed two tupper-ware boxes on the table.

“New stuff?” he asked, picking one up and glancing at the blue-grey powder that crawled over itself as he moved the box around.

“They come together,” Hawke explained as he downed a mouthful of the kind of cider he doesn’t actually like and only buys out of habit because Anders used to come over every Friday before his shifts got stricter, and now Hawke had no one to force feed these things to, “Like, instead of two lines of the same powder it’s two lines of different stuff. Limited edition considering I used up all that existed of its sole ingredient.”

“What are they called?” Varric turned the box over in his hands, comparing it to the other which contained a powder far too akin to sand to be easy to look at.

“Alfalfa and Lucerne,” Hawke said, grinning at himself with a very satisfied look on his face, “I burnt my English coursework from secondary school.”

“Wow,” Varric laughed, “We never studied _Of Mice and Men_ so if it weren’t for my wide knowledge of several people’s education systems then that would have gone over my head.”

“And by wide knowledge you mean Isabela telling you about how she hated it and Merrill talking about how it made her cry?”

“Different strokes, different folks.”

“Okay, yeah, whatever.” Hawke scrunched up some junk mail that lay on the kitchen counter, threw it at Varric for no reason other than he thought it would be funny, “We’re going to Merrill’s for dinner, wear your shirt that has the missing buttons.”

Merrill’s house was actually also an apartment, and one that wasn’t even pleasant to go to at that. Varric’s shirt with the buttons missing, however, showed off a glorious mass of wiry golden chest hair, and was fondly recognised by everyone in their group as ‘Varric’s best shirt’. The drive to Merrill’s – in Varric’s hand-me-down Beetle rather than Hawke’s shifty sales-man-said-brand-new-but-probably-actually-second-hand Volkswagen – was one that Hawke found himself consistently distracted by Varric’s chest hair, causing him to look down the hem of his t-shirt to look at his own. Comparison will kill you, he’d heard somewhere before, but sometimes he just needed good competition.

Varric parked probably illegally in the private parking spaces behind Merrill’s building, and rounded towards the doors with his hands deep in his pockets and his chest practically flying out of his shirt – lighting a cigarette as he went. Hawke walked with his shoulders hunched and his knees bent slightly more than they should be.

“In my autobiography I’m mentioning that Merrill’s building is basically _Tower of Terror_ but with stoners and old people.” Varric punched the numbers into the old fashioned elevator panel, and waited for it to drop down to their level.

“I’ve never been on that ride,” Hawke pouted, “We went to Euro Disney.”

“I’ll make sure to mention that when I write _your_ biography.”

The elevator doors creaked open like the gates to hell, and Hawke and Varric stood in it is they usually do – tense for the floor to fall away beneath them.

“I want my biography to be written in yellow highlighter.” Hawke muttered as the elevator grate shook and clattered against the bare stone wall ahead.

“I can see it now,” Varric crooned around his cigarette, “’Garrett Hawke: The Man Who Never Left his Grunge Phase’.”

Hawke would want to argue, but he was dressed in yellow plaid, gym shorts, Nike socks and a shirt that said _Do Drugs_ in bold red letters so he honestly had no counter attack.

“You dress like an old man.” he attempted weakly, and Varric just barked out a laugh like a seal.

“Yeah, I’d take a stylish old man over a grungy teenager any day.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you think Varric has better fashion sense than me?”

Merrill’s kitchen had reached its full capacity, and if anyone else were to try and enter the room, they’d probably die. A grand total of five people caused the kitchen to seemingly shrink, and make all-elbows Merrill and hips-take-up-too-much-space Isabela bump into everyone they walked past. The kitchen table had creaked invitingly, even if it had been cleared of all plates by this time, so Hawke and Anders had tucked their excessive height away by sitting down and trying not to knock knees as they shuffled around in uncomfortable chairs. Varric sat on a sideboard and sniggered as he aggressively scrubbed at some gravy on his trousers with a damp cloth.

“Stop laughing.” Hawke scowled, turning to Anders who was absent mindedly tugging at his hoodie drawstring. “Do you think I have no taste?”

Anders shrugged, “Taste is subjective.”

“I think you’re just fine, kitten.” Isabela had somehow managed to scavenge more food from Merrill’s barren cupboards, and draped herself around Hawke’s shoulders with an empty taco shell in her hand. Hawke frowned at it, but snapped a piece of the side to chew on.

“Varric says I dress like a grungy teenager.” he sulked.

“I don’t see anything wrong with that!” Merrill kept a foot stool in her kitchen – because she was small and frail and too sweet for this cruel world – and she balanced on it precariously enough that Hawke feared she would bring down the whole building if she fell. shoving salt and pepper shakers back into their appropriate places had never been so extreme. “You can dress however you want, Hawke.”

“Thank you, Merrill.”

“As long as what you wear makes you feel good about yourself.” Merrill flashed an encouraging thumbs up Hawke’s way, wobbled for a second, and the regained her balance by grabbing onto the corner of a cupboard and almost breaking the bloody thing off. “Oopsie.”

“Merrill’s right.” Isabela placed herself decidedly on Hawke’s lap, letting him pick sheepishly at the stale taco shell, “My rule is _if I can get laid in this outfit, I can wear it out_.”

“Yeah, and the last time Hawke picked any one up was…?” Varric waved his hand dismissively, letting his sentence tumble off drearily into what was probably the same pit Hawke’s love life had jumped into some ten months ago.

“The guy with the ginger hair.” Anders stretched a long leg out under the table and prodded Hawke in the shin. “Well, more red hair, I suppose.”

“Ooh,” Isabela rested her chin against Hawke’s shoulder, so her lips were pressed against his ear. Perhaps five years ago this would have made Hawke jump out of his skin, now it was common occurrence. Isabela was possibly the most touchy feely woman in all of history, and when her hands weren’t on Hawke’s shoulders or Anders’ wrists or Merrill’s waist or Varric’s arms, they were almost definitely somewhere on herself. “Was he the one with the _really_ big shoulders.” she rolled her own shoulders for emphasis, consequently knocking Hawke in the collar bone and forcing a familiar goose-like noise out of his throat.

“Yeah, him,” Anders nodded, “Nice body but weird parting. His hair kind of just…grew. He didn’t do anything with it.”

“Sound familiar?” Hawke grumbled, adjusting his tone in double time to fit a more ‘I don’t enjoy you lot nonchalantly chatting about my love life’ mood. He shooed Isabela off of his lap as he stood, and instantly felt as though he dwarfed the entire kitchen. He shuffled over cracked linoleum and avoided too-sharp sideboard corners. Anders huffed somewhere behind him, no doubt reaching back to retie his pony tail. “Do you have anything for me to snack on, Merrill?”

“Oh, probably! Just root around, you might find…something.” _(“And what exactly was wrong with my taco?”_ )

“We just had dinner,” Varric leant forward and swept a hand over Hawke’s shoulder, moving it like he was brushing off dirt when really it was just the closest form of affection he and Hawke had together which wasn’t related to sucking on a bong. “Can your stomach really not hold out for that long?”

“I haven’t had anything else to eat today,” Hawke reached as far back as he could into Merrill’s dusty cupboards, squinting against the minty green that they’d already been painted before she moved in, and patting about until he came across something. He pulled out half a salami.

“You know,” Anders raised a thin eyebrow at Hawke as he took an unashamed bite out of the salami, “Cured meats have been linked to cancer, Garrett.”

Hawke shrugged, taking another bite, “I don’t recall asking for diet advice from an underweight vegan.”

“That was rude.” Isabela was laughing through her faux shocked face, chin in her forearms as she stretched needlessly across the table like she was trying to prove something.

“I’m rude.” Hawke coughed slightly, salami catching in his throat.

“Well if you don’t die of cancer then you’ll die from choking on salami.” Varric reached forward again, prodding a square hand in between Hawke’s shoulder blades. In any other situation Hawke would be grateful, but he’d already dislodged the salami and now it just felt like Varric was trying to push him into the cupboard. He shut the door.

“Noooo!” Isabela leant  back in her chair, reaching out so that she could grab the hem of Hawke’s (grungy, _apparently_ ) yellow flannel. “Not before he gets laid again!”

“At this rate Hawke _will_ die before he gets laid.” Anders gave Hawke a resigned look from across the room, one that yelled ‘you’re a blunt idiot!’ without actually having to be confrontational about it. “Do we even know anyone you’re interested in?”

“The guy who works at the petrol station is pretty cute.” Hawke said, “He has nice eyes.”

“Ew, Hawke, he’s like seventeen.”

“I changed my mind, he’s not cute. His eyes are awful. I hate him.”

“Maybe your mum can help you find a boyfriend.” Anders’ fingers had strayed to the mysterious red stain that had been on Merrill’s kitchen table for years. Everyone called it the mysterious stain, but it was blood, and they all knew that. It wasn’t as if Merrill had been shy telling them that her blood magic had gone wrong and she’d almost blown up her kitchen after cutting too deep. “Isn’t that what most mothers of gay guys do? Hunt down every other gay male and try and match them up with their son regardless of attraction or shared interests.”

It almost seemed like the entire building scoffed.

“My mother knows I’m gay but pretends I’m not because I’m already a drug dealing mage who hates himself I wouldn’t want to hurt her reputation any _more,_ now would I?” Hawke waved his salami pointedly, punctuating his _would_ _I_ with a loud bite that backfired and made him scrape his teeth against his cheek.

Anders shrugged.

“It was just a suggestion.”

“Didn’t you used to keep a ‘Friend Bang’ list, Isabela?” Merrill sounded innocent even saying the term ‘Friend Bang’, though it was probably hard not to when you were wearing a frilly green apron that wouldn’t look out of place on an eighty year old woman. Hawke suspected that Merrill may actually be an eighty year old woman.

“A what list?” Varric scoffed, leaning towards Isabela who had clasped her hands together in excitement. It said a lot about the size of Merrill’s kitchen that Varric could lean that far and remained an equal distance away from both Hawke and Isabela.

“A ‘Friend Bang’ list.” she grinned, “A list of people who I won’t go after for whatever reason, but I should definitely suggest to my friends. Donnic was on that list, so obviously it’s good for something.”

There weren’t many moments in his life when Hawke thought Isabela’s plans weren’t complete and utter nonsense, but this seemed to be one of them. He’d never considered her the best love life coach, but if Aveline had found to be husband Donnic through Isabela’s conniving hands then obviously she was good for something. Somehow Isabela’s social surfing had led to pale spring sunshine through church windows, bundles of marigolds strung up over old stone, Aveline wearing a dress for the first in her life and looking beautiful, and – though he wouldn’t admit it – Hawke crying for the first time at a wedding because they were _so happy_.

“If your ‘Friend Bang’ list means I can get laid _and_ have a beautiful wedding in the summer with my dog in a tiny tuxedo then I’m in.”

Isabela’s wink could probably kill a man. “You’re on, Hawkey.”

 

At eleven at night the next day, when Hawke was wrapped up in a blanket burrito listening to music in the dark, his phone screen lit up with a text from Isabela. Hawke scrambled for a minute, slapping his hand blindly over his bedside table before finding his phone and pummelling his passcode into the lock. His phone background had been the same picture of his dog eating half a tennis ball for years, and he doubted he was going to change it any time soon. He opened Isabela’s message to see a huge wall of text looming imposingly over his frightened thumbs. Upon closer inspection, it was an incredibly precise list of strangers and brief descriptions following. Hawke gaped for a minute, thinking Isabela had just sent him some sort of government census file, before remembering the ‘Friend Bang’ list, and getting very excited. Finally Isabela’s social butterfly tendencies would come to good use.

Isabela swept through mysterious, foreign best friends faster than she slept through them, and every month Hawke had to be introduced to another pretty eyed stranger with impeccable fashion sense and a hot accent. One mild, damp spring it had been Dorian, who refused to wear anything with sleeves and made everyone in the room feel inadequate. In a fuzzy, red summer years ago it had been charming, white toothed Zevran who always knew what to say and claimed he could pick locks but he really couldn’t. That one winter when Hawke had forgotten about Christmas and slept through the dinner he should have been having at his mother’s house, it was broad shouldered Bull with his cloudy left eye, stylish grey buzz cut and a love for dragons that he and Hawke bonded greatly over when they got drunk on knock off vodka in a grotty bar outside town together.

Isabela was probably the only reason Hawke had friends outside of work.

Hawke skimmed over the list, pausing at some to consider, and then moving on out sheer disinterest. Sure, they all _sounded_ nice or whatever, but how was he going to know if he never met any of them first.

_The guy who cleans the public pool on Saturday…the one who works at the garage out of town and has a tattoo of a lizard…this cute younger kid who’s probably only looking for sugar daddy, I don’t suggest him actually…_

Yawns found him quickly, and Hawke leant over to where his ancient iPod was pulsing out soft, quiet music through its speakers. He switched playlists to his up-tempo tracks, determined to stay awake long enough to get through the entire list.

_The dude with a tongue piercing and a mohican – sounds weird but trust me he’s HOT…the Scottish one…the one with all the cute freckles…that one guy we met at Carver’s birthday party who had the hair like ramen…the tattoo artist with the CRAZY tats, seriously those things are ALL OVER HIM and I mean ALL OVER…_

Hawke was half asleep when his phone began vibrating angrily, and he sleepily swiped a finger over the screen to answer Isabela, whose voice was already shrieking out of the receiver like a feral banshee.

“Please tell me you like the sound of at least one of these guys!!” she whined, not even _trying_ to sound quiet in her thin walled studio apartment, “I searched through like three years of notes on my phone to find the list…”

“You’ve had the same phone for three years?” Hawke yawned.

“Besides the point.” quiet rustling came from over the receiver, and Hawke thought he heard other voices in the background. “Do you like the sound of any of them?”

“Well, Bela, I can’t really tell for sure if I haven’t, like, seen them face to face.”

“Do you need pictures?” she was beginning to sound desperate, “I have pictures. I have pictures of the mohican guy and the tattoo guy and the one with the ramen hair.”

“I’m not going to ask why you have pictures of these men.” Hawke shifted in bed, flopping onto his back because he’d been leaning on his arm for the past twenty minutes and it was beginning to tingle numbly. “Also I’ll skip on Mr mohawk, thanks.”

“Shame, he’s a really attractive guy.” Isabela said “ _Also_ these are completely clandestine photos that were taken with consent and approval so you can shove off. Ramen hair photo bombed my picture of Merrill at Carver’s birthday and I demanded I have an awkward selfie with tattoo guy because he tattooed the back of my thigh and I needed to commemorate it.”

“Just hang up and send them to me.” Hawke sighed. _This isn’t weird at all_. he thought.

The photos buzzed through on WhatsApp a few minutes later, and Hawke full screened the one of a man with curly blond hair and a bottle of cider. He was attractive enough – good jaw line, nice nose – but Hawke knew a drug addict when he saw one and his line of work would not mix well with the purple eye bags and dilated pupils of a man hopped up on what he hoped wasn’t one of his own powders. Plus he was pretty sure he remembered this guy being completely _wasted_ at the party and spewing some garbage about mages that made Anders hit the roof and forced Hawke to down a few too many shots of vodka for a man who was supposed to be visiting his mother the next day.

He opened the next picture, chuckling briefly at Isabela’s half-smile half-grimace, eyeliner and mascara streaked down her face. She was giving a wobbly thumbs up. The guy behind her was hiding a small smirk, his profile displayed in clean sharp lines as he reached for something on the table behind Isabela. He was sat on one of those spinning leather stools that you find in hairdressers’ and are every three year old’s dream. The picture made Hawke hold his breath for a second, because not only was he being super creepy, but this mysterious stranger with the bleached locks bundled beneath a beanie and out-dated hipster glasses balancing precariously on the edge of his sharp aquiline nose was giving Hawke heart palpitations.

 _damn @ tattoo guy_ he texted with a shameful blush creeping up his cheeks.

_aight so we arranging for him to tat u up or what_

_bela no_

_2 late_

_i don’t want a tattoo_

_yes u do_

Hawke groaned into his pillow for what felt like a full minute before he texted Isabela again.

_what if hes straight_

_he aint_

_how do you know_

_ur supposed to ask questions to take ur mind of the pain and i asked him if he was dating anyone bc he was super hot n he said no so i asked if he was into guys or girls and he said both_

_so hes bi_

_ye_

_what if hes one of those bi guys who’ s weird about gay dudes_

_i thought it was gay dudes were weird about bi guys_

_idk let me sleep bela_

_OKAY HAWKEY sleep well im gonna get ur sad lonely butt tattoed by hot tattoo guy this weekend!!!_

_no you wont_

_yes i will!!!!!_

As Hawke fell asleep that night, neglecting to roll over and turn off his music which was still spilling out of his speakers in a sickeningly upbeat tempo, he wondered if it would be so bad being set up with hot tattoo guy. Isabela, after all, had set up Aveline and Donnic.

Then he remembered he was disaster magnet Hawke, he never touched anything that didn’t spontaneously combust. His intrusive thoughts often followed a similar pattern, and he lay in bed thinking about all the things he could burn and sell to junkies if this didn’t go so well after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tattoo artist fenris is near and dear to my heart and i will let no one take this from me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to clarify for new readers: the reference to alcoholism in this chapter is an application of fenris' blunt humour. i do not concur with the headcanon that fenris is an alcoholic. this is clarified in a later chapter when fenris says it was a joke, but i'm putting this here so no one gets offended and decides to stop reading when that was not my intention.

Other than being a man who only loved train wrecks, Garrett Hawke knew he had one big problem. That one big problem was that the moment he was close enough to be eye to eye with someone was the moment he judged them for the rest of their lives. It didn’t matter if some drunken stupor had dragged him into breathing against someone’s cheek and watching the pupils dilate, or if he was in a mutual staring contests with a stranger as he waited at traffic lights – he decided everything in that moment.

He knew Varric was the gentle temperance, the guy who _understood,_ the one who wasn’t always slightly jaded when he had to duck his head to meet his line of sight. He knew Isabela was wild and unpredictable and a flicker of pure gold in his life when he caught her glance half way across an awful hipster bar. He knew Anders was angry and placid and lonely all at once when he’d levelled an awkward cognac stare at him from across the sickly green of a chemist counter. He knew Merrill was just as curious and watery as the huge diptychs of light that scintillated over her too big deer eyes when she turned to face the sun in the just the right way. He knew, holed up in church early on a Saturday morning, that he’d wanted to unabashedly make out with Sebastian when he saw his _accidentally_ fell down the stairs, _accidentally_ walked into a door blue stare.

Everything was about the eyes, and this was because he couldn’t see his own eyes, and therefore could not judge himself. He’d said this before, drunk and sad and clinging to the last flickering ashes of his tacky, off brand cigarette – Anders had raised an eyebrow at him, tilting his glass to watch the last droplet of cider trickle away. “Look in a mirror?” he laughed. “Mirrors lie.” Hawke drawled back, and dropped his cigarette butt of the edge of the balcony so he could watch the tiny red flare disappear as it plummeted.

And this was why, as he held Isabela’s hand like an underage father willing his equally underage girlfriend to force a bundle of soft pink flesh and hell from between her legs – except Isabela was not pregnant, she was getting another tattoo and needed moral support – Hawke found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the glazed circuit board green of a man leaning over Isabela’s right shoulder with a liner needle.

“Ohhh, I wasn’t expecting this to hurt more than my thigh…” Isabela groaned like a deflating bouncy castle, wriggling her feet and squeezing Hawke’s hands so hard she left tiny white crescents against his palm. “Hawkey will you buy me a Costa after this…to numb my pain…to relieve me of my suffering – “

“You were the one who wanted another tattoo.” Hawke frowned, chalking it up to ‘ _coincidence_ ’ that Isabela had decided she wanted another tattoo – an octopus for some bloody reason – and dragged Hawke along to ‘help her through the pain’. As much as he appreciated being this close to hot tattoo guy, Hawke was also very aware that everyone in the vicinity was probably under the impression that he and Isabela were dating. Which was an inconceivable thought. “You survived just fine last time.”

Hot tattoo guy grunted, pulling away for a second to admire his work. The lines were clean, Hawke had to admit, but they were only ten minutes in and had barely scratched the surface of the design Isabela wanted.

“You saw that picture.” Isabela squinted up at Hawke, partly because of the bubbly tears that were pricking at the corners of her eyes, and partly because an energy saving light bulb without a shade was above him, and gave him the appearance of having an obnoxious silver halo. “I had mascara all over my cheeks for days.”

“You didn’t cry so much when I coloured it.” hot tattoo guy pushed his glasses up into his fringe, reaching for an uncapped bottle of water on his desk as he set aside the liner needle. “But colouring usually hurts less. Different type of needle.”

“Are you colouring this one, Bela?” Hawke shifted in his seat, sighing when Isabela let his hand go for a second.

“No…no I just want an outline on this one.” Isabela turned, giving her best ‘not flirting for once just actually trying to be friendly’ smile, “Where did you get yours done? I’ve never seen white tattoos before. Not good ones anyway.”

Hot tattoo guy, glanced at his exposed lower arms – all taught muscle, Hawke couldn’t help but notice, spilling out from his t-shirt sleeves – passed his tongue visibly over his teeth.

“It was a long time ago.” he said unsteadily, “I can’t remember where I had them done. White tattoos usually aren’t any good, no, but this was – uh.” he coughed against his fist, “A special case.”

“I’ve heard about some crazy magic infused tattoos – makes them do all sort of weird stuff.” Isabela wiggled the fingers of her hand as if trying to mimic casting a spell. Hawke raised an unimpressed eyebrow, “I would want one but I hear they’re _super_ expensive and they offer them literally _nowhere._ ”

“Not to mention they’re illegal.” Hawke scoffed.

“You’re one to talk.”

“I feel as though I’m hearing things I shouldn’t be.” the guy pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose again, picked the liner needle back up, brandishing it until Isabela leant back as she had before, bracing for the sting again. “I also feel as though the two of you are a lot more familiar with this kind of stuff than you should be.”

“Honestly – ow,” Isabela winced, “I feel like everyone around here knows Hawke’s jive by now.”

The guy smirked, looking up for just a fraction of a second over the rim of his glasses and into Hawke’s eyes – what felt like Hawke’s _soul_. Usually he would have deduced everything there was to know at this point, but Hawke wasn’t getting anything. He had _no_ idea about this guy. Well, one idea: he was _really_ hot.

“Is that so?” the guy muttered, “So what’s your trade?”

Hawke hesitated, “…I deal.” Perhaps not so much.

“Deal what?” the guy asked, “Weed, coke, heroin, acid – all of them? There’s a lot of things you can deal.”

Hawke faltered slightly, tripped over his words as his tongue played jump rope with itself and either side of his mouth tried to high five the other. It reminded him of when he had tonsil stones last year and he freaked out for three days because usually they weren’t supposed to hurt but his _did_ and Anders had to slap him to get him to listen to what he had to say.

“Coke.” he said eventually, because it was close enough. Isabela gave him a look. “I deal cocaine.”

He could tell in the way the guy nodded that he didn’t believe Hawke for a second. Hawke decided it was probably better that way.

Isabela’s tattoo was finished forty five minutes later. This time she’d had the foresight to not wear any mascara, but her eyeliner was still smudged all over her lids and beyond saving. She was between sighing and sobbing when hot tattoo guy mumbled, “ _Done_.” and swivelled backwards on his stool.

“That’s fifty pounds.” he said monotonously after punching a couple of numbers into a calculator with the end of a pencil, “Well, actually, it’s not, but this thing has given me some bloody multiple decimal and I’m not doing the maths so just fifty will be fine.”

“Just fifty’s fine by me too,” Isabela pointed at her bag, which she’d abandoned on the chair beside Hawke, “Hawkey, darling, will you give the money to, uh – oh, I never got your name.” she gave Hawke a sly grin.

“It’s Fenris.” suddenly named hot tattoo guy said, watching Hawke pull a crumpled handful of notes from Isabela’s purse. “Thank you.” he said as he took the wad of money.

“You know the deal from your last tattoo.” Fenris leant over the counter, his shoulder pressing against the old fashioned till, “Keep using that ointment and make sure the plastic wrap isn’t too loose, so on and so forth.”

“Thank you very much, _Fenris_ ,” Isabela rolled his name off her tongue like a god damn curse and flicked her hand expertly inside Hawke’s coat. She pulled out one of those tacky business cards that she’d made for Hawke as a joke, but then it ended up being serious. It was all white apart from ‘Hawke and Tethras’ printed in the centre in Century Gothic, and their business number in small print at the bottom. She pushed it onto the desk, Fenris eyed it warily, “That’s in case you want to get hooked up with some of Hawke’s stuff. Put the number in your phone then burn the card.”

Fenris plucked it off the table and looked at it uncertainly, “I’ve only ever done coke once…but I’m pretty sure that’s _not_ what you’re dealing.”

“It’s a surprise.” Isabela grinned, linking her arm with Hawke’s. “Our rule is we turn up at your place with the stuff if you’re ready with the money and a takeaway meal for four. Toodles.”

“Since when was that our rule?” Hawke asked when they left the parlour and were greeted by a blustery punch of wind.

“Since I wanted free food and since you wanted a pseudo sorta date with hot tattoo guy.” Isabela sighed slightly, leaning into Hawke’s side with her good shoulder, “Fenris is such a pretty name.”

 

And that was how, by some force of fate, Hawke ended up standing outside the door to a grotty apartment with a tupperware box stuffed inside his jacket and Isabela and Varric standing either side of him. Fenris had been quick on the phone the previous night, blurting out his address in a strangled tone and explaining that he was actually sort of trying to stop getting high but he kept coming back to things. Hawke almost felt bad pressing his thumb to the worn down doorbell, listening to soft footsteps pad towards the door. It felt like he was pulling an addict back into their hole.

Fenris’ apartment was littered with the sad, crispy corpses of polystyrene food containers, bottles lined up on every table, shelf or other flat surface, and the odd dirty t-shirt slung over a piece of furniture. Varric wrinkled his nose with a chuckle, and Isabela toed a blue t-shirt away from her with a grimace, but Hawke felt he could relate, and slid the box of powder over Fenris’ kitchen counter. It bumped into a circle of takeaway boxes, and Fenris scowled slightly as he settled his hand over the top of the boxes.

Whilst Hawke was willing to admit Isabela’s made up rule may be a good one that they’d have to start using, he also had to admit that this probably wasn’t the best first try – because Hawke’s mouth was on fire. In fact, everyone apart from Fenris seemed to be having a fit around the dusty kitchen table as they tried to swallow their curry without hiccupping it all back up.

“White people can’t take the heat.” Fenris held a loaded spoon of rice to his lips. Isabela, waving her hand in front of her blistering mouth, raised an unimpressed eyebrow, perfectly peaked even when her eyes were watering and her tongue was having a spasmodic fit, “Non – Indian people can’t take the heat.” he corrected, wrapping his lips around the cracked plastic of a spoon that was so stained it was obvious he lived on takeaways and disposable cutlery.

He decided alcohol was the apology, and when Isabela and Varric retired to the living room to prepare a line over the coffee table and nurse their poor, innocent tongues, Fenris and Hawke stayed in the kitchen to grab bottles of whatever the hell he had.

“You don’t look full Indian.” Hawke cautioned what could be an invasive comment, flashing his trademark ‘I’m charming and attractive grin’ as he leant against a well-worn divot in the kitchen counter.

“I fail to see how my racial identity is relevant.” Fenris grabbed a huge bottle of liquor that only an alcoholic would own from a high cupboard, thrust it into Hawke’s hands.

“I’m Irish-English.” Hawke toyed impishly with the metallic red lid of the bottle, “Your turn.”

Pausing, sighing, Fenris rested his head against the shelved base of the cupboard. His fingers curled anchoringly around the neck of a half empty wine bottle, and Hawke chuckled when a fought smirk crawled over Fenris’ lips.

“Indian-Korean.” Fenris leant back, letting his head dip between the valley of his shoulders, “But I was born here.”

“Right here?”

Fenris scoffed and pressed the wine bottle to Hawke’s chest.

“If you want any of that you’ll shut your trap.” Collecting an armful of wine glasses, Fenris made his way to the kitchen door, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

“Eh, I’m not a wine an. And if liquor is clear then I tend not to trust it.” Hawke glanced back at the cupboard that Fenris had seemingly conjured his expensive alcohol from, “Got anything else?”

“If it’s a booze that you can name I’ve probably got it.”

Fenris turned a 360 on his scuffed heels, dropping all emotion and giving Hawke the most deadpan look he’d ever seen on anyone who wasn’t a rock, “I’m medially classified as an alcoholic.”

Hawke couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, and filled the silence with a hiccupy laugh until Fenris left. With as much shame as a three year old fingerpainting his bedroom wall, Hawke placed the bottles aside and swung open the scuffed cupboard door and stuck his nose thoroughly into the myriad of glass and earthy coloured alcohols. Hawke decided that Fenris hadn’t been joking, as, if the worn paint and polish on the handle and the peeling of bottle labels were anything to go by, Fenris spent a lot of time swimming in the thick air, thin booze and alternating thick-thin temperament.

“Don’t fall in love with the alcoholic car crash.” Hawke sighed as he grabbed a bottle of well-aged whisky, a sneaking suspicion at the back of his mind that he would fall in love with the alcoholic car crash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tonsil stones are real and they are gross; indian/korean fenris is a human!headcanon that i can't let go; and hawke is irish-english because im irish-english and we writers love to project


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m telling you,” this was not an uncommon way for Anders to start a sentence, neither was ‘ _We need to stop…_ ’ or ‘ _Why is society so hung up on…_ ’. Hawke had learnt to just smile and nod. Half because he agreed with Anders most of the time, and whilst they were radical, his opinions were justifiable, but also because Hawke got lost in Anders’ run on sentences about socio-economics and cultural integrity or whatever the hell. Today was the same. Except they had salad. “Magic is the future of medicine. If the damn government would just take a step back and _realise_ that mages are just people then they would know that we’re not out to hurt anyone - our abilities could be revolutionary for the world of science and healthcare.”

Hawke made his chin familiar with the edge of the balcony, pressing his chest against the balustrades and looking out over the evening city. The world was drenched in that tangible quiet – the kind where you can still here chatter and movement, but it’s stiller, hazier, kinder. He could smell his neighbours’ cigarettes, their hushed French voices, the crackle of their wind up radio singing up from below. He smoothed his hand over the bevelled rungs, frowning mildly at Anders.

“Keep your voice down.” he said, “Neighbours are out.”

“But you can’t disagree.” Anders leant forward, a particularly large lettuce leaf hanging over the edge of his bowl and making Hawke twitch. “The things I could do if I just had the resources. Remember when you had tonsil stones?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Fine then – every time you had indigestion in college, what about that?”

Hawke’s memories of gurgling and curling around the colic in his stomach were not fond ones. Sometimes he would still be kept awake at night by images of Anders having to settle his stomach with a gentle green glow, which was swiftly followed by him chucking up bile into the communal showers.

“You made me sick the first time.” Hawke raised his chin from the balcony’s edge, dipping his head over to try and catch a glimpse of his neighbours. They were leant over an ash tray together, eyes locked and fingers working numbly at their cigarettes. Hawke wondered what it felt like to have someone to smoke cigarettes with into the dim evening – not having to share words, not having to discuss business or joke or holler, just sit and enjoy each other’s company.

“That’s because I didn’t know what I was doing,” Anders pointed his fork accusingly, “And all doctors start off not knowing what they’re doing. I could just as easily be a doctor _and_ a mage. Politicians are just corrupt.”

“Wasn’t there a huge underground network of magic using politicians though? Like, only a few years back or something, but they were uncovered and fired or whatever.” Hawke looked at his own bowl, left abandoned on the table and empty all but for the slices of tomato he refused to eat because who the hell actually _likes_ tomatoes.

“They were icons in the mage community before it turned out they were involved in blood magic. Dangerous stuff, not like Merrill’s – used other people’s blood and all sorts. There were some really shady fellas in their group too,” Anders rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully, “Human traffickers, rapists, escaped convicts. So the only coverage any high status mages got in the media was from some group of awful middle aged white men with criminal records.”

“Do you realise the irony of that sentence, Anders?”

“We’re not middle aged yet and only one of us is _completely_ awful.”

“You mean me, don’t you?”

“Maybe.” Anders tilted his forehead into his palm, “Also you’re a drug dealer, so.”

“At least I don’t own a chesterfield,” Hawke stood huffily, swiping his bowl from the table. He tilted his head, caught a glimpse past the chintzy lace curtains at Varric, who was stretched out over the sofa and meddling with an old VHS tape. “Do you want some of that gross cider you like?”

“It’s not gross.” Anders said, nodding, “And the chesterfield is comfy.”

“It’s _ugly_.” Hawke called from the living room. Varric nodded at him as he crossed toward the kitchen door, “What’s that for?”

“Something for you to burn.” Varric said, his eyes glinting with the promise of a bad joke, “I thought we could call it Samara and have people snort it in a ring.”

“That’s awful.” Hawke grinned, “Let’s do it.”

“Atta boy.”

 

Anders left at eight, toting a bottle of cloy cider that he still hadn’t finished. Hawke hated the stuff, and was glad to see Anders leave with an almost full bottle of something so dulcet it could rot teeth instantly. Varric approached him with the VHS tape when the door clicked closed and the echoes of Anders’ footfalls pattered down the stairwell.

“Wanna get weird?”

“Hell yeah.”

They stripped the tape from inside its casing, tangled it around their fingers like children eating spaghetti, and placed it in a shiny heap on the gravelly floor of the balcony. Varric sat down, back against the balustrades and watched with interest as Hawke hovered his hands above the tape.

“Y’know…he can get really annoying,” he said, “But Anders has a point about magic in the medical industry.”

“Yeah?” Hawke flicked a spark from the dip between his knuckles, watched it ignite the tape in a violet glow.

“Yeah.” Varric leant towards the burning, inhaled some of the smoke that curled away in hoary wisps, “I mean just look at this. If you burnt it with a match you’d just get a sticky mess of noxious gases, but when you throw magic into the mix it leaves behind some powdery residue that got two talentless college kids out of debt.” Varric paused for a moment, wiped a hand over his eyes, “Well, I say talentless. At least I can write. You? Well, you’ve always got your looks, Hawke.”

“Why Mister Tethras I had no idea you felt this way,” Hawke prodded at the sola of Varric’s boot, pointing far too close to the flames for comfort. “I was certain you were of a heterosexual inclination.”

“Hawke we’re basically married.” Varric chuckled.

“Nah, you’re my sugar daddy.”

“That works too, yeah.”

The tape leaves behind a jet black powder, one that Hawke wants to rub his hands in because it would look _so cool_ , but Varric manages to drag the giant toddler’s hands away from their product and shove it in a Tupperware box before he can cause any more damage.

“Jesus Christ, how did you survive this long when you want to touch everything you see?” Varric lit a cigarette in the kitchen – after politely asking Hawke to cover the smoke alarm with a tea towel – and leant against the counter. The evening light outside cast his face into shadows, and Hawke thought that if he were a photographer then this would be a prime opportunity. He sighs internally and regrets not taking art in college.

“You know what, I’m not entirely unconvinced that I am alive. I’m probably a ghost. It’s like the Sixth Sense or Beetle Juice or something.” Hawke hears the dog’s paws tapping down the hallway, and he closes the door so he won’t wander in and choke and Varric’s smoke – the mutt’s almost died enough times already. “I died when I was fourteen. That kid who bullied me at school called me a faggot and shoved me in a locker and then forgot I was there. I suffocated.”

“Lockers aren’t air-tight, Hawke.” Varric tapped his fingers against the sideboard.

“True, but I knew a girl who used to write poetry on people’s lockers. It sounds cheesy but she could actually write so it was amazing.” Hawke grinned fondly, “Her inspiration was to write about the person who used that locker. She wrote _no weed here_ on mine.”

“Wow.”

“I wish we’d been friends.”

 

Monday brought a hazy eyed stoner with red hair and redder eyes waiting at their doorstep, a business card in his fingers and a wad of cash in the other hand. Hawke had lazily thrust Samara into his hands, given him the instructions on how to snort it,  and waved good bye to his beloved black powder. He thumbed absent mindedly through the cash until his phone rang and he had to search the apartment for a good minute and half, all the while Mika’s _Grace Kelly_ played quietly and he began regretting setting it as his ringtone. Except he didn’t. Grace Kelly is a great song.

“Why did you take like eight years to answer the phone?” Isabela was on the other end, her voice muffled like it is when she calls from clubs or house parties or the trashed bedrooms of people she picked up at parties. Hawke could hear a girl’s voice in the background and decided it was the third of three options.

“I am an old man and manoeuvring through this young people flat is like traversing the Alps.” Hawke butted the balcony doors open with his shoulder, poking his toe at the scorch mark where he’d lovingly crafted Samara, “What do you want?”

“Weeeeell,” she stretched her vowels out as she usually did, and Hawke hear the girl in the background giggle, sheets shift and crinkle, “I should probably be getting home from a one night stand but I don’t want to spend Monday alone and don’t have work until this evening so I thought we could hang out? I’ll pay for a movie or something if you’re being a cheapskate.”

Hawke hesitated for a moment, running his fingers up the glass panels of the balcony door,

“Is Star Wars still playing at the cinema down the road?” he asked.

“Yeah but we’ve watched it like four times, Hawke.”

“I don’t care, Oscar Isaac is gorgeous and I will watch any film he is in 800 times.” Hawke checked his watch, pulled at the hem of his t-shirt – stained with, like, soup? or something – deciding he ought to change. “Meet me by Costa in an hour?”

“Okey dokey, Hawkey lawkey.”

“Never say that.”

“Sorry.”

 

They sat in almost complete silence in front of Costa for about fifteen minutes, scrolling through their phones and sipping on their drinks and grunting every now and then to acknowledge each other. Isabela’s Tropical Cooler was an obnoxious shade of poisonous berry orange and Hawke’s Belgian Chocolate Cooler looked like trampled slush. It tasted good though so he wasn’t complaining.

“Film starts in ten minutes.” Hawke chewed the end of his straw as he stood up, hovered behind Isabela as she scrolled through her contacts and four _Daddy_ s in a row shot past. “Wow.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” she sighed with a grin, slinging her bag over her shoulder and hissing slightly when the strap caught on her still tender tattoo.

“You _say_ that,” Hawke grinned as he took the arm she offered, kicking away an empty crisp packet that blew past his foot, “But whilst I may look like a straight boy who’s never touched a boob, I was in a relationship with a man I called _daddy_ for almost a year and the time we spent together consisted mostly of going to parties then going home because we wanted to bang. He also had a beard. We were a glorious couple of bears.”

“Don’t feel you have to adhere to labels, Hawkey.” Isabela patted his arm.

“Whilst I am a man who is completely against the stereotypes that arise within the gay community I also like the term bear. Because bears are cuddly and furry and like to sleep and I feel like that describes me well.” Hawke held his arm up, letting the sun glint off his arm hair proudly.

“And you can go from teddy to grizzly real quick?”

“That too.”

 

What Hawke was expecting was for the film to be just as good as it was the first four times, what Hawke _wasn’t_ expecting was that after walking out from the cinema with that weird “how the hell did a dark room make me feel high” sensation he would see a familiar not-that-tall but still dark and handsome guy walking ahead of them. Isabela felt the need to make conversation; Hawke was pretty sure something in his lower intestine burst.

“Fenris!” she called excitedly from behind him, jogging over to clap her hand onto his shoulder. He raised an eyebrow, nodding in greeting. He looked like he was about to go skiing; wrapping up in what was probably every piece of thermal clothing he owned. Hawke tried to tamper down how _cute_ the beanie was. “Wow, wasn’t expecting to see you here…how was the, uh…you know? After we left?”

Fenris stopped, his eyebrow somehow managing to crook further which Hawke honestly hadn’t thought was possible.

“Do you really think this is the best place to talk about that?”

“Good point,” she grinned wickedly, “Hawkey, how would you like another Costa?”

 

“Truth be told, I wasn’t expecting anything that intense.” Fenris talked placidly over the edge of a warm mug, voice hushed so as not to attract attention. Isabela had her lips pursed in a churlish grin, and Hawke listened politely, arm hanging down over the back of his chair. “It made me uncomfortable at first. I had some – “ he paused, “ _unexpected_ reactions.”

“Unexpected?” Hawke leant forward, elbows pressed to the edge of the table, “We didn’t give you any defects did we? You’re entitled to full compensation if we caused you any harm or allergic reaction, me and Varric decided on that a while back – “

“No, no,” Fenris placed his mug down, pulling his glasses of to inspect them – as if they weren’t perfectly clean already, “I just wasn’t expecting it. It was good eventually. A weird buzz in the veins or whatever. I just…I’m curious. What’s _in_ that stuff?”

“…what type did you have?” Isabela cautioned.

“Lido. I brought over Lido for you, that’s the best one for first timers.” Hawke explained softly.

“Lido?” Fenris asked.

“I name them after things based on where I get ideas.” Hawke laughed, “Poteen I made when I was visiting family in Ireland…Kingcup when I had to go camping with my brother and I fell over in a marsh…Bitumen when I tripped over a curb and broke my nose on a freshly paved road – “

“That was the funniest thing I’d ever seen and I wasn’t even drunk.” Isabela snorted quietly.

“I came up with Lido last summer,” Hawke bit back, “At a pool. It seemed like a fun idea.”

“So there’s something different about each one, I’m assuming.” Fenris said, “Do they contain something different or are they different colours…?”

Isabela fell silent, pushing her fingertips together and pursing her lips at Hawke.

“Oh boy,” Hawke sighed into his hands, “This explanation never goes well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an apology for the fact that my cup runneth over won't be updating weekly anymore. i just dont have the time. mcro might even end up on a bit of a break - i just need to catch up with the story and figure it out and get some more chapters written before the updates will be regular again. sorry. this however, will probably still update frequently, it's easy for me to write and i'm enjoying it so much so...yeahhhh


	5. Chapter 5

Wobbly kneed Hawke snapped the showerhead off of its stand, plastic shattered into the bath and he stared at it for a moment before sitting cross legged on the bathroom floor and questioning life. The showered cord flailed like a hose, still running and snaking around a honey lit summer garden. Except the shower head didn’t dance and splatter water, it tangled for a moment before falling too loudly into the bath, leaving Hawke to rest his head against the towel bin and watch the tiles on the wall melt into each other like hot wax.

“I want to shower.” he mumbled into his hand, dragging it across his sleep mussed face, “I smell like something under my bed and I want to be _cleansed_.”

“Are you talking to the dog again or have you finally gone mad?” Varric’s voice came from where might have been the kitchen, might have been the living room. Who knows? Hawke sure doesn’t. “Hey, Hawke? You okay buddy…?”

“I understand I look homeless,” Hawke said, leaning back as he heard Varric push the door open gently, “Half naked and depressed on my bathroom floor but you should expect this from me, Varric.”

“That I should.” Varric leant into the bath, picking up the obliterated showerhead, “What did you do?”

“My best.”

“No,” Varric hit him gently on the forehead with the cord, “What did you _actually_ do?”

“Try.”

“Hawke.”

“I dropped it,” he sighed, “We’re all human. Probably. I mean, the old lady down the shops with the lazy eye might be a zombie but even zombies were once human.”

“I can pick a new one up from Homebase later…” Varric clambered onto the edge of the bath, shoving the showerhead back into its stand, “You’re gonna have to take a bath if you want to smell flowery fresh for that pickup later. We got three boxes of Starry Night on the waiting list and you’ve only cracked out one so far.”

“I need more irises.” Hawke groaned, pulling himself to his feet and reaching for the knobs on the bath, “You only gave me enough for one box.”

“Then I’ll pick those up too, now get washed and dressed. I don’t want you naked when our clients arrive.”

 

Truth be told, there was a reason Hawke didn’t often tell people how he made a living. Towel drying himself down in his bedroom, staring out of his panel window as if he wasn’t completely naked, he realised that there were two obvious reasons for this. Ironic really – the choice he made was less likely to put him in jail than what birth gave him. He wondered how many doctors hid behind their clipboards and muttered under their breath when a magic child was pushed out into the world. How many forlorn mothers clutched their children to their breast and wailed – either wanting to keep their child or wishing they’d never had it in the first place. It was rare for a child to have noticeable abilities at birth, but stories of hospital electricity failing as soon as babies cried or burning the inside of their mother’s thighs as they swiped blindly at their surroundings haunted the dreams of any mother with a magic streak somewhere in their family.

Hawke wrapped the towel around his neck and decided to stop thinking about it.

Except he didn’t, and as he buttered his toast he wondered if his father had known for eight years that Hawke had the ability to throw fire like a blow torch. He wondered if hardened Malcolm Hawke, who was afraid of nothing and up for anything, had been too scared to admit to his wife that the child she’d forced out of her body was lawfully required to hide his identity for the rest of his life. He dropped his knife, wiped the butter off the floor absent mindedly, thought about the excitement that had hammered against his chest when Bethany first froze her blanket. His heart clutched sadly.

This time he did stop thinking about it, and Varric was locking the door with armfuls of shopping bags and two bouquets of irises clutched between his teeth.

“Knock yourself out,” he said, spitting them onto the table.

“Will do.” Hawke clutched at the stalks and watched them turn black beneath his fingertips.

 

“Remember when you first made this and said you would make out with it.” Varric was fumbling with his reading glasses, watching Hawke poke and prod at the violent blue and yellow streaks that the irises had left behind. “Like, you weren’t even joking, you wanted to stick your nose in this powder and suck on its non-existent tongue.”

“It’s pretty,” he picked up a handful and let it fall through his fingers, the way children do on the beach when they build sand castles, “I like to kiss pretty things.”

“Good thing I describe myself as buxom then,” Varric snorted, “I love ya, man, but I’d have to be black out wasted to kiss you. Too much beard. I’d choke.”

“No one in the history of ever has choked on my beard whilst kissing me.” Hawke grabbed a container from a cupboard, held it against the sideboard as he brushed the powder in with his palm. “People have got my hair stuck in their teeth but – “

“As much as I love knowing every sordid detail of your love life I don’t want the _most_ sordid details.”

“But are you sure.” Hawke pressed the lid of the box down, waiting for that satisfying _click_ before tossing it beside the other two on the kitchen table. Varric’s convicted _yes_ went unnoticed. “Someone’s having a party, huh?” he let out a low whistle at the three containers, full almost to their brims with blue and yellow powder.

“Or they’re very lonely.” Varric said, “Building up a supply.”

“Hmm…” Hawke leant against a chair, fingers pressed against the edge of a table till his nails dug into his fingertips.

“Hey – why so blue?” Hawke heard a drawer open, and then felt something hit him in the back of the head. A cork fell sadly onto the floor beside his foot, Varric sat on the counter with the Miscellaneous Rubbish drawer open beside him.

“Eh, y’know,” Hawke rubbed his knuckles into his eye sockets, sighing wetly through his teeth, “I’m bad at communication, I haven’t kissed anyone in a solid five months, I drive people away with something I can’t control. The usual.”

“Depressed mage garbage?”

“Depressed mage garbage.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Ask Bela.”

 

Hawke waited patiently on the sofa watching reruns of _Friends_ , his feet propped on the arm rest where Varric wrestled him for space, barking down the phone at Isabela who talked back so loudly Hawke could hear her voice making Varric’s phone crackle.

“So the moral of the story is,” Varric said finally, hanging up and throwing his phone at an empty armchair, where it bounced against a cushion with a parrot embroidered into that Hawke had found at  a garage sale ( _“I want it.” “It’s so ugly though.” “Exactly.”_ ) “When you think he’s cute, don’t tell him your deal breaking secret.”

“The worst part was that it wasn’t even like he was mad,” Hawke stared at the battered television remote in his hands, wondered if it would smash like the showerhead did if he dropped it. “He was just so cold and calm and _detached_ and he just bloody _left_. He was so polite about it and everything but I could tell by the way he looked at me that to him it was like I’d just _stabbed_ him or something.”

“Wait till he meets Anders.” Varric scoffed.

“Yeah, because after that incident he’ll want to come anywhere near me.” Hawke said, “I hate being like this. I blow everything out of proportion. I was ready to cry about that showerhead this morning. I was ready to cry when I handed over Samara to that ginger stoner.”

“I guess it all comes with the whole magic thing.” Varric sighed, clapped a hand on Hawke’s shoulder like it would help at all. He knew it wouldn’t. “Women aren’t listened to because they’re women. Black people are treated unjustly because they’re black. Asian people are expected to be geniuses. Mages are feared. It’s not fair – it never is – but it’s not like we can click our fingers and stop it.”

“Maybe then being magic would be useful.” Hawke stared at his fingertips, wondered if normal people’s fingers tingled. Wondered if he wasn’t just a walking time bomb with an ammunition of magic boiling up in his gut.

“Maybe then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short chapter in which hawke enters a state of being i am familiar with - that is, the anxiety brain(TM) state of being.


	6. Chapter 6

“You walk like a drunk penguin,” Hawke muttered, lips pressed to the stiff aluminium of an Irn Bru can and hand gripping so tight that he was surprised the stiff leather of Barkimedes’ lead hadn’t sliced through his hand yet. It was true, though, Barkimedes – the French Bulldog with paws like dumplings and ears the size of a small continent – walked as though he’d just had eight shots of vodka at the seediest dog bar in dog town and was now sauntering home, feet barely staying on the pavement as he howled down the phone at his estranged ex.  “But it’s adorable and I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Hawke had discovered years ago when he first dragged a trembling, malnourished puppy into his apartment and given it what was probably its first bath ever, that he was going to start braving _early mornings_. This was because Barkimedes woke at the break of dawn, screamed profusely outside of Hawke’s bedroom door for an hour, and then fell asleep for the rest of the day, and if Hawke didn’t get up, get dressed and get out the door before Barkimedes decided he was bored then that would mean his already fat dog wouldn’t get appropriate exercise and would probably die. At least that’s what Hawke’s anxiety dreams told him. But then again, Hawke’s anxiety dreams also fed him countless misgivings via the subconscious, so perhaps it wasn’t the best way to go about making decisions.

“Now I’m going to tie you up here,” Hawke dropped to his knees beside the bike rack outside a Tesco Express, wrapping the lead tightly around one of the bars, “And you are going to stay here and be a good boy whilst I buy milk and eggs – and also probably a sandwich too.”

Barkimedes dropped onto his belly and made a gurgling noise – about as close as he’d ever get too ‘A’ight’ – which Hawke took as begrudging agreement and as a chance to escape early morning city cold. Granted, the shop wasn’t much warmer, and Hawke audibly _brrr’d_ when he went to grab a pint of milk from the refrigerated section. He spent a good ten minutes decided whether he wanted a bacon and cheese sandwich or an egg and cress sandwich, before settling on tuna and mayo and heading to the checkout.

Out of the three self-service machines, two were out of order and one was occupied by an old lady slowly loading off her shopping into a huge Bag-for-Life. He stepped into the line for the cashier, and regretted it instantly when he spotted a familiar head of white hair in the line ahead of him. His instincts took control for a second, and Hawke’s face retreated into his hoodie, producing what was probably the most chins he’d ever had. He guessed he was just going to be forever cursed with living in the same city as a super-hot acquaintance who he now had _zero chances with ever_ because his mum decided to bang a mage. _Nice._ It was the super market though, who the hell ever turned around in the line for the super market? No one! You line up, you buy your food, you leave. No turning around, he was safe.

Fenris looked behind him and Hawke felt probably every organ in his body explode.

“Oh – “ Fenris’ eyebrows furrowed, hesitantly averting his gaze, “Hello, Hawke.”

“…Hi.” Hawke coughed, blowing his cheeks out like children do when they don’t know what to say. He felt he could relate to those children, “You’re up early, huh?”

_Yes, Hawke, because everyone else in the world tends to get up before eleven in the morning._

“Um – it’s nine.” Fenris said awkwardly, and Hawke wondered whether it was rude to stare at people’s ears but Fenris had a cigarette tucked behind his and Hawke wondered whether it was even _legal_ to do that in a shop – not that Hawke should be worrying about what was or wasn’t legal.

“Oh, is it? I…uh, I hadn’t noticed.” Hawke fell silent for a second, watched as Fenris was the next to be served. He placed down a cheap bottle of red wine and gum, pointed behind the counter at a packet of Marlboros that the cashier retrieved with a carefully blank face.

“Can I, uh…”Fenris turned back to Hawke briefly as he bagged up his stuff, “Can I talk to you outside in a second?”

“Yeah…sure?” Hawke watched Fenris go, placing down his milk, eggs and much sought for tuna and mayonnaise sandwich.

 

Fenris was leaning against a lamppost outside, spitting out smoke like a combustion engine as he waved the hand that held his cigarette. Hawke untied Barkimedes and made his way over to Fenris, who was seemingly refusing to look Hawke in the eye at this moment in time. Fenris pushed at his glasses impatiently, before taking a deep breath,

“I’m sorry if I offended you the other day.” he shakily took another drag of his cigarette, speaking through impossibly thick clouds of smoke, “About the whole, uh…” he lowered his voice, “…the mage thing.”

“I get it a lot.” Hawke sighed, throwing up a guard smile that he hoped would instil some sort of confidence in Fenris. They both knew Fenris was too smart for that.

“I of all people should be the last to be discriminating but I just…” Fenris’ eyes fell towards Barkimedes, sat patiently beside Hawke’s leg and licking the toe of his shoes absent mindedly. “Dogs.” he said faltly, and Hawke blanked for a second before he elaborated, “If you’d been bitten by a dog several times you’d be wary of them – wouldn’t you?”

Something clicked in Hawke’s head, “I get it.” he said softly, lowering his head. He watched the space between his feet and Fenris’, the scuffs on his trainers, the pieces of gum stuck to the pavement. “At least you don’t hate me for no reason.”

“No – Hawke, I don’t hate you.” Fenris raked a hand over his face, sighing heavily through his teeth. “You seem like a perfectly nice guy and my concerns aren’t directed towards any one mage but – I don’t hate mages for existing, like most people.”

Hawke waved his hand in a wheel motion, urging Fenris to go on.

“I hate people who abuse power. And I know not only mages do that but…well, I’ve known far too many who have.”

Fenris stubbed out his cigarette aggressively, taking off his glasses to rub haggardly at his eyes.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“Yeah I…I appreciate that, Fenris. Thank you for telling me.”

With a huff, Fenris slipped his glasses back on and hugged his shopping bag to his chest.

“Yeah…see you soon sometime?”

“Sure.”

 

“Why is my name on your phone Doglord?” Isabela’s phone was sticky and glittery, and Hawke lay on the awful shag rug in her living room, scrolling through it and periodically wiping his fingers off on his t-shirt.

“It changes.” Isabela mumbled, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs of tea and a cigarette clutched between her lips. “It was Hairy Large last week.”

Hawke took the larger mug from Isabela as she knelt next to him. He watched her lipstick stain streaks into her cigarette.

“What does Hairy Large mean?” he asked through a sip.

“What it sounds like.” Isabela set her mug down, listened for the _click_ of ceramic against the lino flooring. She shifted, grabbing a pack of Lucky Strikes from her back pocket and offering it open topped to Hawke. “Light it on the balcony if you want one.”

Plucking a cigarette from the box, Hawke crawled over the shag rug like a giant hairy baby. He head butted the balcony door open, but didn’t go outside. It was too cold today.

“Your balcony is nicer than mine.” he pouted, rubbing his fingers at the end of the cigarette until it sparked up. “Ours is basically a roof with those…rung things.”

“Balustrades.” Isabela nodded, alternating between drags of her four forty five cigarettes and her chokingly strong tea.

“Yeah, a roof with those.”

“Maybe it’s because I actually paid for a nice apartment, Hawkey my hairy large.”

“Please stop calling me things I don’t understand.”

“Okay, quantum physics.”

 

“How indie do we look right now?” Isabela drained her mug, stubbing her cigarette out on the balcony door frame. “Like, how many foreign movies could we be in.”

“As any as Xavier Dolan can push out of his beautiful brain.” Hawke blew his last cloud of pillowy smoke into the late spring air. Britain’s perpetually grey sky was yet to let up, and even if summer was weeks away it still felt like Hawke was wading through January’s miserable wake.

“You’re looking very far away today.” Isabela clicked her fingers in front of Hawke, waiting for his slow-mo reaction. “Dreamy, I mean. What are you thinking about?”

“You’re like…a dating master, right?” Hawke flicked the ash away from the end of his slowly shortening cigarette, hazarding a burnt thumb as he met Isabela’s gaze. She nodded – completely unironically, Hawke noted. “So, uh, when it comes to, like – I don’t know… _making a move_ how would you, um, go about it?”

“Oh, _Hawkey_.” Isabela clapped her palms together, biting her lip, “Darling this will be fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more short chapters /jazz hands  
> Xavier Dolan is an excellent film maker btw and i definitely recommend his stuff.


	7. Chapter 7

There was a small room in Isabela’s apartment that she had rather menacingly dubbed _The Love Den_. Hawke was absolutely 500% sure he didn’t want to know what happened in this room ever, but as it turned out, Isabela didn’t care for his irrational aversion to suspiciously named coops, and dragged him in besides.

 _The Love Den_ turned out to be just an office, which Hawke was kind of disappointed about, but sitting down in Isabela’s far too comfortable faux leather office chair, he took note of the poster pasted walls which obviously gave _The Love Den_ its name.

“I have never seen so many boobs in one place.” Hawke muttered, “How distraught were you when Playboy stopped publishing nude photos?”

“Inconsolable.” Isabela giggled, leaning against the wall which Hawke assumed must have been a labour of love. He imagined Isabela first deciding to decorate this room with racy posters, having to start off in the corner so she could build outwards; how sad this tiny room looked with its blank magnolia walls and three posters of women in revealing clothing. “Now, time to up your flirting game. I don’t think I need to guess who you’re stalking this time – “

“I never _stalked_ that last guy, I just checked his social media before I hung out with him, it’s a safe way of approaching a relationship with someone you don’t know very well – “

“You were stalking him, darling. Anyway, what happened with Fenris? Did you two talk it out?” Isabela picked up a rubber band ball from her desk, rolled it between her palms absent mindedly.

“He told me that he was sorry if he offended me,” Hawke pressed the pads of his thumbs together to give his hands something to do, “And that he’s only a bit weird with mages because of prior experience.”

“Alright, so, we have a cleared head space,” Isabela announced, “Now think, what do you know about this guy? How can you make conversation with him?”

“Well, uh…” Hawke scrunched up his face in thought, wondering just how much he looked like Barkimedes at that moment, “He’s a tattoo artist.”

“Yes.”

“He…wears glasses?”

“Hawke, actual relevant stuff.”

“I don’t know! He likes drinking?” Hawke recalled the dangerous amounts of bottles stacked up in that cupboard in Fenris’ kitchen, “Like _too_ much. He told me that he was medically classified as an alcoholic and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not and that’s really worrying.”

“You sell drugs.” Isabela countered, Hawke’s eye twitched.

“Fair point.”

 

An hour and a half didn’t seem to do them much good.

“Hawke,” Isabela glared pointedly at her watch – some fancy rose gold thing that Varric had got her for her birthday and she’d gushed over for at least ten minutes. “My shift starts in twenty minutes and we’ve made no sort of progress at all.”

“Started from the bottom,” Hawke sighed, slumping into the chair like a deflated bouncy castle, “Now I’m still relatively close to the bottom.”

“Drake would be so disappointed.” Isabela reached for the door, throwing a glance that Hawke thought was supposed to be condescending over her shoulder.

“Literally the last thing I want to do is disappoint Drake.” standing, Hawke pushed the illegally soft chair back under the table, bid farewell to the wall pasted with scantily clad women, and made his leave from the fabled _Love Den_. “But, yeah, you should get to work. Mum invited me and Carver out for dinner yesterday and I’m pretty sure I’ve only got like, ten minutes to get to Weatherspoons.”

“It says a lot about your family that you go to Spoons for dinner.” Isabela smirked, seeing Hawke to the door.

“Need I remind of you of the area I grew up in, Isabela?”

“No!” she chortled, “See you later, Hawkey. I have more flirting lessons to come!”

“Oh joy.”

 

Varric drove Hawke to dinner, one because his car looked nicer than Hawke’s, and two because Hawke had been low on petrol for at least two days now. _Family dinner_ loomed imposingly as it always did, and Hawke had been forced to drag himself into a shirt and a pair of tidy trousers. He left the tie around his neck loose – the only one he owned and still one that had belonged to his father. He tugged at it profusely down the stairwell and out the flat doors, remembering having to wear it at Bethy’s funeral. Oh, it had to be Bethany, didn’t it? Sweet, kind little Bethany with her round cheeks the colour of peaches, her shiny hair that bounced when she walked, her freckley cheeks that every Hawke child had and wished they didn’t.

He pushed it out of his mind – it’s not like he could be crying when he turned up for dinner.

“Wow, you actually scraped yourself into some semblance of presentable.” Hawke couldn’t see Varric when he climbed into the car, but he wasn’t surprised to turn his head and see out dated aviators propped on the bridge of his nose, a can of Coke Zero in his hand.

“Mum would have a fit if I turned up in a hoodie and shorts.” Hawke snorted.

“Isn’t that all you ever wear?”

“My mother is almost constantly having a fit.”

“You can’t say much,” Varric flicked his indicator, pulling out into the evening traffic, “Once I brought you a pack of prawn crackers and you cried.”

“I was bed ridden and confused and it was the first food that wasn’t soup I’d had in days, don’t patronise me you tiny man.” Hawke made a point of looking out of the window and avoiding Varric’s line of sight.

“…So Bela called me.” Varric waited just the right amount of time to get a good groan out of Hawke. And Hawke definitely delivered, pressing backward hard enough that he almost disappeared into his seat. “You finally entered _The Love Den_ , huh? What was it like?”

“Sapphic and orgiastic.”

“I could have expected that much.”

 

“Oh, it’s so nice to be able to spend some time with you boys.” Hawke’s mother said as Hawke almost fell asleep on the spot and Carver blatantly ignored her for his phone, “We hardly ever get to talk to see each other anymore, we should do this more often.”

“Yeah.” Hawke said through a yawn, “Yeah, we should.” he elbowed Carver, who replied with a grunt and a glare and then returned to his phone.

“I say, you look awfully pale, Garret – have you been spending all day inside again?” Leandra held herself in that undoubtedly _concerned mother_ way, and Hawke could only shrug.

“I’ve been out a bit but I just tend not to _want_ to anymore.” he looked at the clock behind his mother’s head, trying to pretend he was looking at her, “Anxiety and stuff. It makes me worry about going out.”

“Oh gosh, I’m sure it’s not _that_ bad, dear.” she cooed, “I’ll go and order drinks, beer for both of you?”

Hawke waited until Leandra was out of earshot to hiss, “If someone is slow to text me back my brain instantly decides they hate me or they’re dead. But yeah, mum, it’s not that bad.”

“You’re so melodramatic.” Carver muttered, looking up from his phone for a split second, “No one’s gonna die because you texted them.”

“That is not what I said at all.” Hawke bit back, “What are you on anyway – and if you say Tinder I will actually scream – “

“Tinder.” Carver deadpanned.

“Oh my god.” Hawke leant over his shoulder, watched him swipe right too many times to count, “Do you just accept any pretty girl you come across? Regardless of shared interests? Would you even be _friends_ with her?”

“Shut up, Garrett. And no – if she likes One Direction then I might think twice about it.”

Hawke felt an immense groan build up inside him, and clapped a chastising hand onto Carver’s shoulder.

“Our mother dances to YMCA, Carver. Girls liking boy bands doesn’t change anything about them.”

“You used to love NYSNC.” Carver was overcome by some stroke of social skills application, and set his phone aside, looking at Hawke with watery blue eyes.

“You sang Dancing Queen in the shower.”

“You used to ride your bike around town by yourself crying.”

Hawke did in fact used to do that, and it was a memory he was yet to erase.

“It added to my grunge aesthetic.” he hissed moodily, averting his gaze as he saw his mother approaching, two glasses of golden brown beer in her hands. Carver swiftly returned to his phone.

“Are you not having anything, mum?” Hawke sipped hastily at the glass his mother placed on his coaster, wondering just how wasted it was appropriate to be in front of one’s mother. Varric wouldn’t judge when he came to pick him up, but his mother would have to add another point to the _Reasons Why Garrett Is a Disappointing Son List_.

“Mm, no, I’m driving.” Leandra grabbed a menu from the stained wooden stand, scanning over it quickly. “Why are these menus sticky?”

“Probably better off not thinking about it.”

 

Family dinner ended in an argument, Carver burying his head in his coat and sulking over his phone, Hawke feeling his entire body beginning to vibrate with nerves, and Leandra passive aggressively leaving the boys to enjoy some quality brother time. Carver wanted none of that, paid his share of the bill and stood up stiffly. He looked like maybe he was going to leave without a word, but he paused, a ravelled tension in the curve of his neck and the right angle degree of is legs.

“Garrett?” he leant against the table, refusing to meet Hawke’s eyes. “…stop bouncing your leg.”

“Does my coping system for being uncomfortable make you uncomfortable?” Hawke spat, rifling through his pockets and snapping open his wallet with as much gusto as he could. His relationship with Carver hadn’t been warm and fuzzy brotherly love since Carver was five, and by the time Bethany had settled into the soil their thoughts of one another resembled more of a stagnant pool than an ocean of love.

“ _Oh my God, Garrett_.” Carver’s fisted hands trembled, red knuckled. Hawke could see the oil stains on his thumbs, his curled index fingers, that seemingly never washed away. It was obvious why he kept them like that, even if he’d never say a word. It was obvious that stubborn Carver Hawke wanted to prove that he’d made something of himself to his destitute mother who was still stubbornly hanging onto the few lifelines her prized eldest son had left. Carver was a mechanic and Garrett sold drugs, yet their mother’s harsh favouritism persevered. “You’re always like this! You call me an insufferable brat but all you ever do is cry and worry about problems that don’t exist. Mum just wanted us to have a nice time tonight and you had to go and be your usual smartarse self.”

“She was angry because you wouldn’t get off your phone.” Hawke said, fingers fluttering nervously over the edges of the notes that he’d left caught beneath his empty glass.

“She was _joking_ about me being on my phone and then _you_ had to go and make it an issue.” Carver stuffed his hands in his pockets, pushing away from the table with a resigned huff, “Whatever, I don’t care. You’re all she even cares about, Garrett. Start giving her a reason.”

And he left, hood drawn low and mood drawn lower, pushing his way out of the huge panel doors.

Hawke’s hands shook when he got out his phone.

“Hey Varric - ? Yeah, I’m in Spoons now, I’ll head down to the bus stop for you to pick me up.”

“…Hawke, your voice is shaking.”

“Do we have to talk about it?”

“Nah. I’ll be down in a minute – hold on in there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Hawke, ily but you need to suffer.


	8. Chapter 8

Hawke woke to a text from Isabela a missed call from his mother. He checked Isabela’s text, he did not call his mother back.

_u know hawkey at the heart of all flirting is just having fun and being yourself_

_idk if u keep your clients numbers for business reason or w/e but if u do just CALL fenris and ask if he wants to like_

_hang out_

_or smthng_

_be brave young poppadum_

_*padawan_

_lmao why does my phone correct poppadum to poppadum_

_PADAWAN_

He would have laughed, but this early in the morning his throat was dry and his tongue was heavy and the closest he came to laughing was wheezing awkwardly through his teeth. The apartment was quiet, and he assumed Varric must have taken Barkimedes out for a walk. Either to stop the screaming or give Hawke some time for himself, he didn’t know but he still appreciated it.

He dragged himself to the kitchen, being all on his lonesome giving him an excuse to make breakfast naked. Phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, dialling Isabela’s number, he stuffed bread into the toaster.

“Hello Hawkey, my young poppadum.”

“What are the bets poppadum is now my name on your phone.” Hawke said sleepily down the receiver, rubbing his eyes as he waited for his toast to pop.

“…I wasn’t going to but that’s an excellent idea, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Hawke stared at the butter, turned the knife over in his hand, “I am a treasure trove of excellent ideas.”

“That you are. What did you need, lovey, you’re not usually up before eleven.”

“I got your texts.” the toast popped out, and Hawke burnt his fingers three times before he managed to grab it, “You told me to be brave. You know me better than this.”

“Oh, Hawkey,” the sound of paper crinkling made Hawke’s phone hiss with static, and he pulled it away to put on loud speaker. “You need to have more confidence in yourself.”

“I know.” buttering his toast with passive aggressive vigour, Hawke raised his voice to carry down to the sideboard, attempting not to tear holes in the bread. “But until I do – gain confidence that is – I need you to help me with your flirting skills or whatever.”

“You want me to wingman you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Hawke nodded towards the phone as if he could pout dramatically at Isabela via the power of movement, “You are literally my only hope.”

“Well, if that’s the case…” a sigh whistled through the receiver, “I suppose it’ll have to be a good old Mission Flaker.”

Deeming his toast buttered to perfection, Hawke turned off loudspeaker, “Mission Flaker?” he asked, mouth full.

“Mhm. Oldest trick in the book, pardon my cliché choice of phrasing.” Hawke took a seat at the kitchen table, nibbling at the crust of his _I’m-trying-my-best_ breakfast, “I’ll invite a group of friends out for a drink – group of friends being me, you and Fenris – saying that it will be a nice get together, and then I go off and do something else, leaving you two to your own devices.”

“That’s…actually not the worst plan ever.” admittance was followed by a glob of butter stuck in Hawke’s moustache, “At least you didn’t want to lock us in a cupboard.”

“That was my next option.”

“Reassuring.”

 

Isabela set the plan out in a matter of minutes, insisting Hawke write it all down somewhere even if she spoke at lightning speed and future Hawke would definitely not appreciate current Hawke’s scribbled attempts at note taking. But attempt he did, and spent the first light of his morning scrawling onto the white side of a Magnum wrapper in sharpie as Isabela ranted in his ear.

“It’s Saturday.” she said eventually, her voice slowing to a pace that could be considered sluggish in comparison to the way she listed, “And I’m not on the bar, so we could go out tonight. Providing Fenris is available of course.”

“What am I supposed to say to him? I can talk to him fine when I’m in the swing of things but when it comes to _starting conversation_ I’m just - ” Hawke held the wrapper up with a heavy sigh, reading and rereading. “How am I supposed to ask a guy I barely know to come out for a drink without being weird about it?”

“Just be honest.” Isabela replied, “Practice on me.”

“I had this entire conversation naked.” Hawke said, glancing down to confirm to himself.

“You learn so fast. Now call your Prince Charming.”

“Don’t call him that.”

 

“Hi, uh, you don’t think it’s weird that I still have your number, right?” finally fully dressed, Hawke decided the balcony was the best place to make this call. Fresh air, no distractions, perfect vantage point for throwing his phone to oblivion after he messed up.

“Only if it’s not weird that I still have yours.” Fenris’ voice sounded tired and dry, but hell if it wasn’t the most the most relieving thing Hawke had heard all morning. “Did you need something, Hawke?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, um – “ Hawke sighed shakily, gripping at the balcony like he was trying to strangle it, “Isabela was wondering – no, um, Isabela and I were talking about how we seemed to – we got along, right? Like, during the deal and whatever, and we thought that maybe we should get to know each other better. Because…because Isabela likes you and I, um, I also like you and maybe we should – uh, okay, whatever, do you want to maybe go out for a drink? Tonight. Or. Or something.”

The line crackled with breathing, and Hawke bit his tongue pensively.

“…You could have asked that question in five words or less.” it wasn’t obvious if Fenris was laughing or not, but Hawke chuckled in response staring pointedly at a line of cars waiting in the traffic below, coughing up their grey-brown smoke. “But – sure. I don’t have anything on tonight.”

“Oh, great.” Hawke’s hand tightened around his phone, back relaxed like a pin had just been pulled from between his shoulder blades. “That sounds…that sounds great. Uh – Isabela said she wanted to go to the Hanged Man. You’ve heard of it, right?”

“Dingy club downtown – it’s hard _not_ to hear it.”

“Yeah that one.” Hawke smiled to himself, looking down at the hand that he curled over the balcony. He held a steady gaze with his knuckles, “At nine? I think that’s when Isabela said…”

“Of course. Meet you there?”

“Yeah…see you.”

“See you.”

 

Isabela’s vanity dresser engulfed her room in pale streaks of opal light, reflections from every angle somehow not distracting her as she applied a dusky lipstick intimidatingly named _Heartless_. Ready for what may be an hour by now, Hawke had retired to Isabela’s bed, draped over golden sheets that were some kind of Egyptian cotton nonsense that Hawke couldn’t care less about it. It was ridiculously soft though, and he was praying he wouldn’t fall asleep.

“I appreciate makeup is an ordeal but how many different shades of lipstick have you tried at this point.” Hawke groaned into a pillow, one that was probably goose feather or something and that made him kind of angry.

“I’m caught between Tuscany and Burlesque.” she muttered, glancing at the swatches on her palm.

“We have a powder called Burlesque.” Hawke said, turning onto his back so he could stare at the ceiling. There was a weird off white stain in the corner that he didn’t want to ask about. “It’s burnt copies of _Fifty Shades_.”

“I imagine it’s the only thing that book is good for.”

“Probably.”

She set aside the lipstick for a second, spinning in her stool so that she could look Hawke in the eye.

“You look nice by the way. I didn’t think you owned anything other than shorts.” she gestured at his jeans, “And the shirt is nice.”

“I’m still wearing Nike socks.” Hawke laughed, tugging at the knee of his jeans, “I’ve got to stay true to my aesthetic.”

“Please don’t tell Fenris that.” standing abruptly, Isabela swiped her handbag from the vanity and cocked her head, charcoal hair tumbling in perfect coils over her shoulder. “Alright. Ready?”

“Not really.” Hawke rocked back and fore on the sheets, clenched his fingers wretchedly into the duvet like maybe he wouldn’t have to face anything if he anchored himself enough. “My stomach feels like a Coke and Mentos experiment and my eyes hurt but I’m going to try.”

“Good boy.” Hawke looked up, hiking up his shoulder because otherwise he couldn’t see anything properly. Isabela was stood in front of her window, parallel to the bed, blocking out the golden streams of sunset light and absorbing the splendour like the dripping gold jewellery she wore grew from her skin. “Get up. We have fifteen minutes to be downtown.”

“Sorry, I was having a moment.” he sat, toeing on his shoes and listening to Isabela’s heels tap away into the hall.

“Your life is one long _moment_ , Hawke.”

“That’s true.”

 

Downtown after sunset was thrown into ethereal purples and musky oranges, the streetlights fizzed and Hawke had to hold his shoulders against his ears so he could move with ease through the crowd. They carved a path – which was not unusual – Hawke because no one sees a guy that big and decides to stay where they are, and Isabela because she’s _Isabela_. Every street was heavy with bass, lights pouring out of a nightclub entrance like a mishap science experiment.

“This place smells like the inside of a glow stick.” Hawke leant over Isabela’s shoulder, whispered in her ear whilst simultaneously burying his face in her hair. She used green tea shampoo and it smelt _incredible_.

“Not as bad as your street.” she snorted, “The bus stop near your building smells like bacon dipped in cigarette ash.”

“Smoky bacon.” Hawke laughed.

“Oh shut up.”

Fenris was waiting perhaps three buildings away from the Hanged Man, a cigarette in his mouth and his eyes wide like he was waiting for something to happen. Whilst broken glow stick hell was gone, these streets smelt like weed and wine and what Hawke imagined neon would smell like if it had a scent. Stood beneath a flickering streetlight and puffing out smoke like it was carbon dioxide, it was hard to tell if it was Fenris or not, but they were close enough to see that coiled wire way that he held his shoulder. Isabela whistled at him and when he glanced around for whoever had done it he looked ready to murder someone.

“Oh,” the intensity of his stare softened, if only somewhat, “I didn’t realise it was you.”

“If it hadn’t been me I would have given you full permission to kick the ass of whoever it had been.” Isabela grinned, hands decidedly on her hips, nose pointing in the air.

“I would have done it regardless of permission.” Fenris stubbed his cigarette out on the lamppost, flicking away the stump into the road. “Hello, by the way.”

“Hi.” Hawke choked out, hindered by both the words catching in his throat and the smoke hovering in the air.

“I’ve never actually been here,” Fenris fell into step with Hawke and Isabela, trailing through the path they sliced as Isabela’s heel clicks pushed people back like Moses at the Red Sea. “It smells just as bad as I imagined, though.”

“Sweat, alcohol and things I shouldn’t mention in public.” Isabela cawed, her voice carrying over the musical sway of the air. “What are the bets you can sell your assets here, Hawkey?”

At least five pairs of eyes snapped Hawke’s way, scanning him up and down frantically.

“Please don’t make me sound like a sex worker.” he hissed, grinning awkwardly at the couple whispering fervently at each other, the girl groping at her purse.

“I mean,” Isabela let Fenris through the door first, offering Hawke a sly grin as he followed. Somehow he was not surprised when she slapped him heartily on his behind, “I’d buy ya.”

“I’m not in your market.”

“OOOH!”

 

It was maybe twenty minutes after slipping into a sticky booth at the back of the Hanged Man, watching far too many bodies illuminated in violet strobe light screaming and bouncing in tandem, ordering brightly coloured drinks that Hawke didn’t trust one bit, that Isabela pointed out a man so tall he may actually have an inch on Hawke, and deemed herself occupied for the rest of the night. She had actually had to climb over Fenris to get out of the booth, and Hawke was sure the group of teenage boys smoking weed in the booth next to them were very grateful for the prime view of her very short shorts as she leapt from the faux leather seats and scrambled through the crowd.

“She’s like an antelope on meth.” Fenris took a cautious sip of the luminous green cocktail that Isabela ordered him. That drink was the sort of thing that should be _melting_ a martini glass not sitting pretty with a slice of lemon inside one.

“Why meth?” Hawke stared suspiciously at his own drink – so purple it hurt his eyes and reminiscent of that one time he was walking on a wall and fell onto a passing cyclist resulting in a bruise that lasted for a month.

“Meth addicts act erratically and suffer constant mood swings.” Fenris said matter of factly, “She seemed to fit the bill.”

“We probably will too, by the end of the night.” Hawke raised his glass up to the _many_ lights that were scintillating and flickering for what was probably meant to be _ambience_ but what felt more like _having an LSD induced seizure at a cult rave in the early eighties_. “What’s with the colours?”

“Mine looks like Shrek vomited into a glass.” Fenris said, but he still took a sip so it couldn’t have been that bad. “ _Yours_ , on the other hand, is a dangerous shade of auto-erotic asphyxiation purple.”

“I’m going to associate the colour purple with some messed up kinky imagery now, _thanks_.” Hawke jokingly tipped his glass forward, as if toasting the prospect of thinking about getting sensually strangled every timed he looked at that purple blouse his mother always wore.

“My pleasure.” Fenris raised his glass in return, not breaking eye contact as he took a heavy sip from his probably poisonous imposter martini. _God_ , that drink might have been so green it could be mistaken for radioactive waste but it was never going to quite live up to the green of Fenris’ eyes.

They held each other’s gaze for at least six seconds, before Hawke got jittery and had to drag his eyes away, pressing his lips to his glass and muttering about how he didn’t understand the bedroom appeal of not being able to breathe.

Fenris laughed, leaning his elbows intently into the edge of the table, he watched the ground with interesting, perhaps at the shadows that the strip lights and table tops painted onto the grimy, bare concrete floor, or maybe at the tip of his shoe, which was pressed not so discreetly against Hawke’s.

“I can’t help but wonder if all your friends are like that.” he gestured lazily to Isabela, who was leant against the bar, ghosting her hand delicately over the bulging chest of a man nose deep in his glittery cocktail. The smoke machine behind her was busted, coughing out plumes of white clouds that drowned her image until she looked like a storybook goddess drenched in sweat and molten gold.

“None of them are _quite_ like Bela.” Hawke wheezed, “My friends are from all reaches of the world and not always in a great way. You met Varric – the one who almost knocked your neighbour’s cat off the balcony. He’s an enigma in the fact that somehow he’s exactly the same as her all the while being a completely different person.”

“Was this the same Varric who said I looked like I couldn’t take one shot and then dry heaved when he tried Jinro Soju?”

“Yes.”

“I’m beginning to guess what the rest of your friends might be like.”

“Yeah, they’re…” Hawke sucked on his bottom lip for second, considering his friends and realising how weird they were taken out of context. Anders had full on _conversations_ with his cat. Merrill liked Adam Sandler movies. Aveline was a _police woman_ for Christ’s sake. “They’re loveable if nothing else.”

“I can tell you think so.” Fenris ran his finger around the edge of his glass, lifting an eyebrow as if to say _do you actually like your friends though, yay or nay._

“I don’t know, sometimes I like my friends and sometimes I don’t.” Hawke laughed, except it was kind of forced and guttural and sounded a bit like a bear being punched in the gut, “Like, sometimes Anders brings me oranges and I love oranges but sometimes Anders says cats are better than dogs and these are the reasons our friendship is rocky.”

“Never trust a cat person.” Fenris took a wise sip of his drink, and Hawke nodded like a bobble-head on a country road.

“ _Honestly_ , cats are nice or whatever but dogs will always love you – cats can come or go.”

“Well said.”

 

At around eleven Fenris needed a cigarette break and – addled by his third drink of suspicious origin and outrageous colour of the night – he insisted Hawke came with him and dragged him by the hand through a crowd of bouncing, grinding bodies that threatened to stamp Hawke into the floor if he made so much as one wrong step.

The streets were quieter now, cooler, and every impatient foot tapping body that had bustled and pushed earlier was tucked away in either a club or a prison cell. In this part of town, it could go either way.

Fenris leant against a stained metal bench, the sticky glass of something yellow and fizzy hanging precariously from his hooked fingers and rooted in his pocket for his lighter and a frayed packet of Marlboros. He alternated between puffs of scathing smoke and mouthfuls of cloying liquor, pupils wide with fumes and alcohol and slightly inebriated excitement.

Hawke felt his eyes clouding over with multi-coloured cocktail confusion and the tingling sensation that Fenris’ hand in his had sparked when he’d ambled through the crowd. It was like a tiny electric storm in his hand, and he still felt it now, erratic and blue and rushing through his veins like it were physical. He flexed his fingers, let a few sparks crackle over his knuckles to keep him calm.

“Are you alright?” Fenris hummed, sounding like he was gargling on smoke as it spilled like water from his lips.

“Yeah, I’m just a bit antsy. I think a guy touched my butt when we were walking back there,” Hawke glanced over his shoulder to the small group of people who were drinking clear alcohol and listening to Fall Out Boy on a beat up old iPod. “But he was pretty cute so it’s okay.”

Laughing around the smoke, Fenris tilted his head, drunken eyes squinting in the light pollution,

“I’d assumed you were straight.” he rasped.

“Was it the socks?” Hawke leant down, rolled up the left leg of his jeans until the threadbare Nike sock was visible in all of its pulled-straight-up-to-the-knee glory. “In secondary school I adhered to every heterosexual stereotype to throw my friends and family off the scent. I guess it just stuck through the rest of my life. I wear these socks so that straight guys will think I’m one of them and accept me into their chav squads. It’s all an elaborate ruse – I’m actually super gay. I love wang. Or, y’know, whatever else is between his legs. Not every dude has one.”

“You’re a very strange man, Hawke.” Fenris pushed away from the bench, taking a few wobbly steps towards Hawke and exhaling smoke like an exhaust pipe.

“I cover up crippling self-doubt and anxieties with puns and other such primitive humour.” Hawke shrugged, his eyebrows knitting together with a sigh. Fenris stubbed out his cigarette on the wall beside them, so plastered with posters that he burnt off the face of the lead singer of some Vaporwave band that was playing next Thursday. Despite the rush of a passing car and Fenris’ lowered voice, Hawke didn’t miss the whispered _Same_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy moly i'm /proud/ of this chapter. hoo boy. nice.


	9. Chapter 9

The cabbie who drove Hawke home looked like a middle-aged, divorced parent who was considering becoming a serial killer. Hawke wasn’t sure why this comparison leapt to mind, but it may have had something to do with the array of dashboard toys that did not seem like the kind of accessories a man of his age and demeanour would collect.

Unsurprisingly, Isabela had straight up passed out as soon as she leapt into the taxi with a squeal of “ _SHOTGUN_.” that had been conveniently muffled by the passing crowds of friends leaving clubs and catching rides home. Hawke had pushed himself as far into the back of the taxi as he could, trying to avoid making eye contact with the driver as he steered sharply in and out of the downtown streets. The light, which had been harsh and neon earlier in the night, was dimmed, a softer, hazier glow for the 2am crowd who were more likely smoking post-coitus cigarettes on their balconies or having existential breakdowns in their kitchens rather than snorting questionable substances and chugging absurdly coloured alcohols. The taxi smelt of hot plastic and sweat, and Hawke took refuge in the thick, smoky musk that hovered around Fenris in the backseat. He imagined anyone who wasn’t a chain smoker, a junky, or _dead_ would probably be disgusted by the idea, but Hawke was somehow comforted by the scent of overpriced yet admittedly good quality tobacco.

He almost felt the ash embed itself in the skin of his nostrils – something he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of or not – and he could still smell it the next morning when he smoked his cheap Hamlets in bed as the sun broke his room into fragments of diffused glow through the curtains.

“I shouldn’t be awake this early.” he wheezed at Barkimedes, who had sneakily infiltrated his room via the power of _Hawke’s drunk again I can sleep on the bed tonight_. “I’m so hungover….thank you for not barking like a maniac though, that means a lot to me.”

Barkimedes yapped shrilly, kneading his little paws into the duvet like he was trying to make bread out of the portion of Hawke’s leg that he was lying on like a glutton.

“You’re adorable.” stretching out his hands for affection, Hawke had hoped that Barkimedes would roll into his touch like the lovable ball of fat fur he was, but he mostly just got a few licks and a tiny sneeze. “That was also adorable so I forgive you for refusing to love me.”

He stubbed out his cigarette in one of the glass ashtrays that Varric had scattered around the apartment, wrinkling his nose, “Should I smoke when you’re in here? I probably shouldn’t. Sorry.”

 

Varric was sieving hastily through files when Hawke dragged himself into the living room, wrapped up in a blanket and very little else as Barkimedes followed at his heels. He threw himself onto the sofa, grabbing his ugly parrot cushion, only to be greeted by Varric looking at him like maybe he’d stabbed someone.

“What?” he yawned, “Is it because I’m naked? You’ve seen my junk before, at least I had the decency to bring a blanket this time – “

“Not everything is about your Johnson, Hawke.” Varric laughed, grabbing a piece of yellow paper and throwing it Hawke’s way, “I texted you about this last night, I doubt you got it considering how _smashed_ you were when you got in last night.”

“Hmm, it seems I have forgotten how to read.” Hawke set the paper aside, smushing his face into the ugly parrot cushion, “I don’t want to read it, Varric, I’m tired and dizzy.”

“If you’re really that lazy,” Hawke heard Varric’s footsteps echoing in a circle, paper shuffling, sniffing, “It’s an order. A _crazy_ order. This guy wants ten rounds of Poteen, Tonsorial, Paschal, Lido…and _more_ , I mean, there is so much powder in here man… _Joie de Vivre_ – we haven’t sold that trash since our first summer out of college.”

“Yeah…?” Hawke fiddled aimlessly with the frayed tassels of the ugly parrot cushion. “We’ve had big orders before. What, you’re worried we won’t have enough party poppers to make a decent amount of Joie de – “

“Hawke.”

“What?”

“Do you have _any_ idea how much that’s worth?” Varric’s fingers weaved their way through Hawke’s hair, pulling his head back until they were holding steady if somewhat awkward eye contact. Hawke shrugged. “I mean, I haven’t done all the math yet but…Hawke, it’s somewhere between 500k and a million. This guy’s ordered out half our stock for some crazy series of parties next month and we’ll be earning in a couple weeks work than we usually do in a couple years.”

“…oh my God.”

“I know!”

 

“ _How much?_ ” Merrill’s gasp carried down Hawke’s phone like a crinkling paper bag. Hawke could almost see her eyes widen to the size of watery, green saucers.

“I know, isn’t it _crazy_.” Hawke laughed, pressing his forehead momentarily against his phone. “I’m going to buy so many dogs, Merrill. I could - ! I could get you into a better apartment!”

“Oh Hawke.” crooning softly down the phone, Merrill sounded as though she was shifting the phone onto her other shoulder. “That’s very sweet of you, but I could never let you pay for all of it.”

“I’d want to help pay for everything for all of you,” Hawke said, “You all deserve better and I want the best for all of you. I’m going to buy Anders proper food.”

“He won’t eat anything with meat. Or dairy.”

“I’ll buy him better vegan food.”

“I think he’ll appreciate that.” Merrill said, “Why did you want to tell me this, Hawke? Did you just want to tell me about all the things you want to buy.”

“That.” Hawke sighed, an anxious grin cracking his cheeks. He swirled his orange juice absent mindedly in his glass, watching Barkimedes roll on the floor to try and dislodge a chunk of lint stuck in his fur. “But also I wondered if you had hair. Like, y’know. From your job. Not your own hair. Unless you wanted to offer your own hair. I need to burn it is what I’m saying – for the order.”

“I didn’t think you’d need hair for anything else. Unless you wanted to make a wig for yourself.”

“That’s very creative, Merrill.”

“Thank you.”

 

By midday Hawke had written down all the things he needed to burn before the end of the month – resulting in an extensive list that included dirt, eggshells, lobster, hair, and countless other questionable components. The backseat of the car he was driving under dubious safety with his head still droning with last night’s alcohol jostled with plastic bags and containers from various shops. Trekking around town for ingredients was hard enough most of the time, least of all when his car started groaning under the weight and he still needed to make it to Merrill’s place before he ran out of petrol.

“I’m so glad you’re a hairdresser.” Hawke threw his hands up in relief upon seeing three paper bags lined up on Merrill’s kitchen counter. “I’d have to cut my hair for this job otherwise.”

“Oh, it’s no problem really.” Merrill’s face was flushed as she spoke, still flinchy from when just seconds ago Hawke had almost knocked over at least five potted plants upon entering her _far too_ small hall. “It’s ginger, blonde, brown from left to right.” she explained with a pointed finger and a bird like sigh, “Is it enough? I do hope it’s enough. Oh gosh, I can’t believe you’re being paid so much for this order…”

“Yes!” Hawke gathered the bags into his arms, grinning and tapping his feet excitedly, “This is amazing, Merrill - ! Oh – huh, sorry if I’m a bit _extra_ today, I’m still pretty zazzed from last night.”

Tilting her head, Merrill sat carefully on one of her rickety kitchen chairs, it wobbled and clicked against the floor with her weight. “What did you do last night, Hawke?”

“Went out for a drink with Isabela and – oh, you haven’t met him, uh, our friend Fenris. It was fun.” he rubbed at his eyes haggardly, pushing the bags aside so he could sigh through his nose like an exhausted dog. “I’m very hung over though.”

“I do hope you weren’t driving, Hawke.”

“…”

“ _Garrett_.”

“Sorry, Merrill.”

 

Hawke’s phone started buzzing angrily on his drive back to the apartment, and after parking awfully inside a huge pothole, he groggily checked his messages whilst sinking into his seat.

_my mouth still tastes like that awful radioactive swill_

_im glad i was joking about being an alcoholic_

_i couldnt be dependent on trash like that._

_but last night was fun. we should do it again_

Hawke’s heart probably tried to claw its way up his throat in that moment, or at least that’s what it felt like when he spluttered savagely over his screen. He wiped it off before replying, muttering to himself _so he was joking._

_yeah definitely!!_

_if it makes you feel any better tho i feel like someone’s drilling a hole in my skull_

_so_

_yknow_

 

Varric was tapping away at a calculator inside, his ankles crossed beneath the table as he shook his head and whispered urgently to himself. Hawke set the shopping bags – around ten of them, of which he’d refused to take two trips for and had slung over his arms and carried triumphantly up the stairs like he was rescuing urchin children from the burning orphanage – on the counter, rummaging around inside one of them and pulling out the egg and cress sandwich he’d bought to calm down his angry hangover stomach.

“What’s it lookin’ like?” he said through a mouthful of bread and Varric looked back, eyebrows raised and reading glasses shoved messily into fringe of golden hair.

“The math’s giving me _hell_ but…it’s good, I think. Closer to a million than 500k which is _crazy_ but still really, _really_ great.” he laughed breathily, brushing his hand over a mask of greying stubble. “This is absurd, Hawke. We could just quit.”

“I know.” Hawke sighed, resting the back of his head against a cupboard door, “But do we really want to, though? I don’t think I could live with myself just sitting around doing nothing all day – even if my only _something_ is setting fire to trash.”

An icy echo of _You’re all she even cares about_ latched its cruel fingers around Hawke’s spine, bouncing around the inside of his skull like some sort of warning. He thought of Carver making an honest living in the greasy garage on the edge of town, messing around with the carcasses of cars and motorbikes. He wondered what Bethany would think. He thought about maybe crawling back into bed and not waking up for a week or two.

“What do you want me to burn first?” Hawke said instead, sliding off the counter and taking a list of powders and ingredients from Varric’s offered hand.

 

There was an impressive black burn in the middle of the living room floor by the end of the night. It was nothing a little manoeuvring of rugs couldn’t fix, but it felt fragile and crackly underneath Hawke’s fingers, and the scorch marks up his hands and arms from an accidental bolt of lightning scared him into not wanting to touch it any further. He sat back on his heels, staring at the eight boxes of Lido he’d managed to create from burning sunglasses and beach hats.

“Can you tell why I’m astraphobic.” Hawke muttered, running a hand over the ironically lightning like sores that were scouring up his arms. They’d burnt away all the hair in their paths, leaving loud and proud red roads mapping over his skin. The thick hair surrounding them made it look like a forest cycle path. “I’ve never been able to control electricity well. I can do sparks and flickers and whatever but when my dad tried to teach me how to control it properly I almost fried our tree.”

“I’m guessing this is also the tree you fell out of when you were eight?” Varric, chewing on his pencil, managed to get out between unwanted mouthfuls of rubber and flaking paint.

“Yeah,” Hawke smoothed his hand over the mark cautiously, pulling back when he heard ominous creaking, “Let’s just…cover that up with the rug.”

“Good call.”

 

Bed called to him like an impish siren at little past nine o’clock, and Hawke collapsed into his unmade nest of blankets like he’d spent years sleepless. He wrestled feverishly with his clothes for a few minutes before he was able to dump them all in a pile on the floor and regress to his preferred state: being naked and wrapped in blankets.

Undrawn, the curtains on the windows revealed the weaving neon light that the city thrived on; lines of bright white and mellow orange criss-crossing each other down roads and back alleys and plazas. The glow of streetlights and shop windows in the centre was the city’s heartbeat, thumping a steady rhythm of light pollution and regular pollution through the air. Hawke sighed, turning so he wouldn’t have to see the world moving around him, so he wouldn’t have to get up and draw the curtains, so he wouldn’t have to feel bad about leaving them open.

He hated feeling bad about things that didn’t matter.

The tiny little light on his phone was blinking, and in his jaded state of _this moment in my life might actually mean something important but here I am on the verge of tears again_ he was some able to stare at it for five minutes before Hotline Bling got stuck in his head and he had to make a grab for the phone.

A text from Isabela from three hours ago,

_I ONLY JUST WOKE UP OMG LMAOOOO_

And another from Fenris, which he realised with a little guilt that he’d completely ignored earlier.

_sounds painful. i hope you feel better soon hawke_

His heart bounced around in his ribcage and his thumbs came into clumsy contact with the keypad.

_wow sorry for kind of ignoring this earlier_

_that was a complete mistake i promise_

_but I feel better now yeah_

_thanks_

And then, with a quick exchange of message threads,

_have fun trying to rebalance your sleeping schedule nerd. im going to sleep now_

Isabela replied with a string of angry emojies, Fenris replied with _good. sleep well hawke_ which he didn’t receive until morning. He read them both over breakfast, one of which made him accidentally snort his orange juice as he went for a sip, and the other which made him inhale his cereal in delight and disbelief.

Barkimedes had given him a very judgemental look from beneath the kitchen table, but, coming from a dog who ate shoes, Hawke couldn’t find it in him to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this while watching hot fuzz so, like, pls ignore any mistakes im a heathen who only edits when i feel like it lmao


	10. Chapter 10

A week before the deal was supposed to take place, when the kitchen was stacked with rows upon rows of powder filled boxes and Hawke had spent countless sleepless nights burning rubbish and texting Fenris and crying alone in the bathroom, Hawke received a breathless call from Carver, who spluttered something about their mother and a hospital and a heart attack before he hung up, leaving Hawke confused and frozen in the kitchen.

“I don’t know what it is.” the hospital waiting room was cold and blue and scattered with magazines five years old, yet Carver’s voice somehow managed to sound colder and wearier. The set to his brow was harsh and dark and made Hawke feel like this was somehow his fault. “She just…the hospital called me as her emergency number and told me to be down here as quick as possible.”

There was a flicker in Hawke’s chest, one that may have been from the influx of magic use in the last few weeks, or may have been from the fact that his mother had _finally_ taken Carver into account for something.

“You took your time…” Carver muttered, “Fifteen minute drive down here from your street. I called you forty five minutes ago.”

Hawke stayed quiet, trying not to hold eye contact with his brother for too long.

“…You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”

Lacing his fingers together, Hawke ignored Carver altogether – trying not to think of all the stupid things he did.

It had been half an hour of recalling, recalling, recalling, tearful questions and anguished yelling before Hawke – ill advised – clambered into his car and drove to the hospital with vision so bleary he swerved three times and almost crashed just five minutes before even reaching the hospital. He would have got out the car, apologised for accidentally denting a young man’s bonnet, but his brain was kicked into overdrive and Hawke’s anxiety levels were pushed so far over the top that they’d inverted. He felt complete apathy as he parked in a spot that the woman in front of had been about to take, kicked open his door and left the car unlocked.

He wasn’t aware that his face was red and cheeks wet with tears until he’d found himself staring Carver down across the waiting room in a passive aggressive battle of _you_ talk to _me_ first. Carver had to cave – _because he’s not as damn selfish as you_ – but refused to sit down as he crossed his arms next to Hawke and battled through the next three white coat, medicinal, hospital scented hours with little to no facial expression.

The smell of hospitals was like doom to Hawke, and when he sat next to the bed where his still breathing but on the edge of death mother was lying like a paper white corpse he had cruel flashbacks of his father in the same position. It was like watching a movie – watching a bad, old movie with a dead woman and a bratty younger sibling – because his thoughts had the frame rate of a VHS tape, and his father’s face was full of static interference. He heard the crackles and the glitches and the hissing of tape getting stuck. He remembered his father’s rattling breathing and bony hands and it was all played in fast forward. A sadistic game, perhaps, where everyone Hawke ever loved was going to fall away from him like this, in a hospital where they couldn’t move, couldn’t walk, couldn’t _live_.

He wondered if Carver would go out like this.

He wondered if he’d be hit by some drunk driving idiot on a motorbike, have his body mangled five ways to Sunday by the tread of its tyres, be bruised and dilapidated and distraught just like Bethany had, just like she _always_ looked when -

Dark nights, darker thoughts, every time he closes his eyes he sees Bethany and his father being dropped into the earth like after thoughts. He stood up, left Carver with his mother – sleeping, alive – and cried in the hospital bathroom for twenty minutes.

A call from Varric forced him to wipe his eyes and steady his voice, leaning pathetically against the pastel blue sinks as his watery voice splashed against the receiver.

“Hey, man, where’d you go?” his voice was light and it made Hawke’s lungs feel like rubber, “You were out the door faster than Daisy after a couple shots. I thought maybe you’d gone for a smoke or a walk or something but you’ve been gone for hours.”

“Hospital.” Hawke groaned, staring at himself in the mirror. He looked a mess – tangled hair, grey circles, red eyes, redder cheeks. “I’m…I’m at the hospital.”

“What? What happened?” Varric’s voice split from careless to concerned in a millisecond, and Hawke would appreciate the sentiment behind his tone if he didn’t just feel so _empty_.

“Mum had a heart attack.” Hawke let out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Carver called me. And then we argued. And now we won’t talk. And mum’s still alive, but – but…I mean. She doesn’t…look good, Varric. I don’t think she’s gonna hold out.”

“Heart attack? Jesus…” there was rustling on the other end of the line, “Leandra’s barely sixty, Hawke, where did that even _come_ from?”

“I have no idea.” Hawke replied, “The doctors said they’re checking for traces of nicotine but I swear my mother never touched a cigarette in her life. She was perfectly healthy I – I don’t _understand_.”

He put the phone down, choking on his own breath. A shaky hand strayed to his throat, held there firmly in place as sobs wracked his body like tremors through tectonic plates. Varric’s voice carried small and quiet from his phone, but Hawke couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. He didn’t understand – he _couldn’t_.

He didn’t want to have to watch this happen again.

“ – still there, Hawke? Please, c’mon, you alright?”

“I’m here.” he gasped, feeling cold air rush against his throat like a raw slap, “I’m here, Varric.”

“…Right. Good.” Varric took an audible gulp, “You can hang up if you like. I get that you’re gonna need your time alone.”

“I don’t know.” Hawke huffed, “I don’t…I don’t think I can leave myself to myself when I’m  like – like this. I’ll die. I’ll do myself in, Varric.”

“We’ve had this conversation before.” Varric’s voice went low and steady, pumping through the receiver like slick oil.

And the worst thing was, Hawke remembered.

He remembered a cold, dark bathroom and his forehead pressed against chilled tiles and an overflowing bath freezing his feet through to the bone. It had been after a nightmare, he’d crawled from bed and fumbled with the knobs on the bath, thinking _warm bath, calm down, warm bath, calm down_. He can’t remember if his hands had slipped or if his brain had kicked into overdrive at the worst possible moment, but ten minutes later he was kneeling down in an ice cold bath trying to forget what his limbs felt like.

“In the bathroom.” Hawke whimpered.

“Yeah. In the bathroom. Now you know you don’t really want this. You say you do – all the time – but you don’t want to _not_ be alive, Hawke. You’re sad, we’re all sad sometimes. Hold in there buddy because no matter happens, in the end it will end up better.”

 

After half an hour of doctors muttering and shuffling and Carver glaring Hawke down the moment he returned to the ward, they were dismissed – told that they’d be given updates on their mother’s health in the next few days.

“What will you do?” Carver asked in the car park, carried by some force of _relation_ to follow Hawke to his car. He frowned when he pulled the door open without keys.

“What?”

“What will you do.” he repeated tersely. “If mum…if she leaves us. What will you do.”

There was a moment when the Hawke brothers met eyes, and there was one sentence shared between their gaze. _You bailed on Bethany’s funeral._

“I’ll cry at the funeral.” Hawke’s voice cracked, “But…but I’m always crying so maybe that doesn’t mean anything.”

Carver smiled at him for what may be the first time in four years. The last time he did it had been drunkenly, slurring over Isabela’s kitchen table when Hawke had to uncomfortably drag him to her birthday drinking party because she wanted to see how he’d _filled out_. But there weren’t any luminescent cocktails and tiny umbrellas here, Varric and Merrill weren’t doing the Macarena whilst Anders drunkenly warbled the words in incorrect Spanish, and Isabela wasn’t singing happy birthday to herself whilst wrestling a spiked shot glass off of Aveline – instead it was just a grey afternoon, the breeze curling inside Hawke’s disrespectfully bright 90s jacket, Carver’s hair curling from the stress, and a stern gaze held between brothers which, for the first time in a while, wasn’t laced with yelling and snide remarks.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Carver sighed, turning to search for the tell-tale blue glint of his shiny d-bag SUV.

“I’ll try.” Hawke gave a two fingered salute, sliding into the stained seat of his car. He rifled through the glove box until he unearthed an ancient CD jam-packed with appalling 90s hits. The Macarena was the first track, and he listened to it on loop until it felt like it was four years ago when he and his brother weren’t quite so estranged and drinking didn’t make him want to drown in his beer bottle. He knew he’d get quite a few looks as he blasted the ending number of any eleven year olds’ birthday party out of his old, trashy speakers, but he’d just brush it off; those people knew no more of his life and needs than they knew that the song was actually about a promiscuous woman cheating on her boyfriend with several men at a time.

He was murmuring it unintelligibly to himself as he climbed the stairs to his apartment, barely reaching to pull his keys out before the door swung open and Isabela appeared pouting and gripping to a box of tissues.

“You’re in my house.” Hawke said, wiping at his still runny nose.

“I am.” she smiled sadly and stood aside, Hawke sauntered in and took the tissue she offered him, “How are you, lovey?”

“…Confused.” Hawke admitted, feeling his eyes grow misty again. He swiped the tissue over his face in the hopes that he could just erase any sign of having been crying in almost every square inch of the hospital for the last four hours or so. “And also everyone is in our living room apparently?”

Varric, sat in the armchair closest to the balcony, looked up with a soft grin – his mouth pulled like he was laughing but his eyes round and gentle. Merrill and Aveline were speaking in hushed tones on the sofa, throwing cautious glances Hawke’s way as Isabela snaked her arm protectively around his shoulders. Merrill was crushing the ugly parrot cushion in her tiny arms. Anders was smoking on the balcony.

“I thought maybe you needed the moral support.” Varric wheezed awkwardly.

“Good old Varric,” Hawke collapsed into the only free chair in the room, “Broadcasting my personal life to the world.”

“I’d never do any less.”

“…Thanks.”

“We’re here if you need us Hawke!” Merrill’s bright eyes were desperate in the light that shifted through the curtains. She looked, as she usually did, shiny and frail like a bubble, but there was a sternness to the way she held her shoulders. “We’re your friends and we want to help.”

“Whatever you need.” Aveline nodded, folding her hands in her lap.

Hawke felt his throat throb. No one reminded him more of his mother than Aveline did – perhaps because they were the only two authority figures in his life who had been so blinded by affection they had to look past his questionable professions and positions – but he could count on one hand the amount of times Aveline made him feel awful about himself; his mother? he’d need a larger hand.

“Heart attack.” Hawke said feebly, “I imagine Varric told you.”

A unanimous nod from around the room, out on the balcony Anders was holding his head low.

“She looked so weak…I doubt she’ll last for long.” his voice, paper thin, wavered and wobbled as he continued, “I’ll miss her. There’ll be a huge hole in my life without here, but – “ cough, “And I know I sound awful saying this but…there’s a lot of things about my mother that I could live without.”

He laughed coldly, cradling his head in his hands. The rest of the room remained silent, waiting for the inevitable moment where Hawke would be able to handle himself no longer and disappear into his room for days on end. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Perhaps three times they’d had to replace his bedsheets because two weeks in a bedroom spent alone all but for raw emotion and a volatile energy coursing through his body set up an equation for lots of burns in lots of places.

“I always knew when my mum wanted something off me,” he smiled, though there was no happiness in the way he held his gaze out of the window. He watched the creases in Anders’ trousers, the way they shrunk and stretched when he shifted. “She’d be overly nice and wouldn’t ignore my issues for once.”

“…But Leandra’s so sweet though.” Isabela coughed, holding a tissue to her mouth as she mumbled.

“Yes, my mum’s sweet, but she’s also never experienced mental illness or societal oppression and therefore can’t relate to me on a level a mother and son should be able to.” it all fell out like water, Hawke was a tap suddenly and he didn’t know how to turn himself off. He was terrified of being submerged in cold water. “She undermines my feelings because she doesn’t understand them. Just because she loves me doesn’t mean she’s any good at it.”

He didn’t notice until he’d finished speaking that he’d been slowly raising his voice, and when the room stopped shaking he felt disgusting for making Merrill’s hands shake and being the reason Varric wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone in the room.

“Dammit. Dammit, dammit, _dammit_. I’m sorry, I’m – I’m leaving, I’m sorry. Goodbye.” Hawke sprung from his chair, ripping his jacket off and pushing it violently against the coat stand, “Thank you for coming everybody, but – “ he didn’t finish his sentence, but a sob could be heard after he slammed his bedroom door shut.

 

He slept for perhaps two hours, and woke with a sticky face and a dry mouth. Barkimedes was curled sadly at the foot of his bed, and he made a grab for the pack of Hamlets still sitting on his bedside table.

“I thought you would have left by now.” Hawke lit his cigarette as he walked to the balcony, leaning his head lamely against the balustrades as Anders stubbed out what must be his eighth cigarette.

“I wanted to see you.” Anders sighed. His eyes lingered slowly on a red pack of Lucky Strikes – the same type Isabela smoked – but he didn’t reach for another.

“You won’t get much out of me.” Hawke said bitterly, sucking on his cigarettes like those willowy rich boys did behind the changing rooms.

“I didn’t want to talk.” he sighed, “Just see you.”

“How neo-romantic of you.” Hawke tapped away the ash of his cigarette, watched it drop to the cars bustling below, “Nicholas Sparks would be proud if we weren’t both men.”

“I’m not trying to woo you.” Anders laughed softly, but his mouth fell just slightly, the crease of his brow easing. Hawke felt an unfamiliar twisting in his chest; it was upsetting but he couldn’t tell why. “I just wanted to make sure…you were okay.”

“I’m not.” Hawke chewed at his cigarette, “I never am. But in context I want you to know that I will survive.”

“Good.”

“Give me a Lucky Strike will you, these Hamlets taste like old coal.”

“I’ve almost through half the pack.” Anders offered him the packet anyway, and Hawke threw aside his barely burnt Hamlet as he took one from him.

“Look at us. Filthy magic using chain smokers.”

Anders’ laugh echoed lightly over the balcony, scaring the pigeons away from the arched roofs of the apartment building opposite.

“Shut up.” he bit his lip through a grin.

“You shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fandom: ignores the fact that Leandra constantly guilt trips Hawke and even at some points says she wishes they had died instead of Bethany/Carver  
> me: have this trash


	11. Chapter 11

“I’d definitely heard somewhere that the Macarena was messed up,” Anders had stayed the night, crashed on the sofa with the ugly parrot cushion in his arms, and he remained there now, spooning cornflakes into his mouth as Hawke marvelled at the avocado he’d just perfectly halved, “But I never thought it would be so sexually explicit.”

“One of the lyrics mentions her ‘seducing’ a new boyfriend in New York,” Hawke digs his fingers into his avocado in an attempt to remove the pit, but he digs into the flesh and gets green paste all over his fingers, “And another says that whilst a _different_ boyfriend was taking an oath she was ‘giving it’ to two friends.”

Anders rolled his eyes at the way Hawke used air quotes, “Why are you sitting on the floor?”

“I belong here.” Hawke dragged his fingers through his avocado and grimaced at the gouge he left, “Amongst the dust and termites and other forgettable things.”

“You’re hardly forgettable.” Anders stirred his cereal nonchalantly, and Hawke offered him a _really though?_ face. “You’re not! If anything, you’re probably very memorable. There are probably a lot of people whose favourite story to tell at the bar is how they bought drugs from a mage who burns stuff for a living.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Hawke held up his avocado, “Said drug dealing mage also likes to eat avocados with his hands and cry alone in the shower.”

“If you’re in the shower it would probably make sense for you to be alone.”

“I could be having a steamy shower with a non-existent significant other who doesn’t mind when I leave snot all over them.”

“…ew.”

“There’s never any snot crying in movies, why is that? Where are my ugly criers, I want to see more people who become Sloth from the Goonies when they cry - ”

“Garrett.” Anders said sternly, setting aside his cereal and swinging his scrawny legs onto the floor. Hawke could tell by the tone of his voice that he was about to have a ‘serious-Anders-talk’, but it was hard to take him seriously when he was wearing slippers, boxer shorts, and a t-shirt that said _I’m naked under this_. “You’re rambling.”

“When have you known me not to?” Hawke started, but Anders cut him off,

“And you ramble when you’re upset.”

“Which is all the – “

“And you obviously need to talk about your mother.”

Hawke placed down his avocado on the floor, trying to ignore the fact that Barkimedes walked through here all the time and probably dragged his fat dog butt across it too. He brushed a hand through his hair, concentrating hard on his feet so he wouldn’t have to meet Anders’ eyes. _Wow_ , his toes are so hairy, how did he never notice this –

“And not only are you avoiding the situation, but you’re avoiding me.” there was an irked pitch to Anders’ tone, and when Hawke had the courage to lift his head up and return his gaze, his eyes were softer than Hawke had expected. “You’re my friend. I don’t want you to feel like you have to avoid me.”

“I don’t!” Hawke insisted, “I don’t feel like I have to avid you, or – or anyone, actually! I can talk about myself for _months_ because, hah, I’m just that messed up that I can’t really run out of fun conversation material, but the moment someone actually wants me to take it seriously I – “

Hawke sighed, watching the early morning sunlight fall through the curtains. It illuminated his avocado like a shiny green deity and he decided he should burn avocadoes and name the dust Shiny Green Deity.

“I shut down.” he said, making a grab for his avocado and digging his teeth into. “I can’t be serious about my problems because then I’ll realise how god damn _real_ they are and I’ll get sucked into the pit of existentialism and suicidal thoughts - my favourite ride at the fair.”

“But we’re here to help you.” Anders plead sounded more and more like a whining cat with each second, and however annoying it may be it was somehow endearing, “You’ve felt like this before and we’ve always managed to drag you out of your funk with cartoons or sugary drinks or something illegal.”

“I heard,” Varric appears in the doorway without announcement, waving a smoking bundle of Smudge Sticks around for whatever reason, “Talking to strangers helps because they have no preconceptions and whatever you say won’t make a difference to them.”

Wrinkling his nose at the smoke coming from the Smudge Sticks, Anders buried his weak hay-fever nose into the ugly parrot cushion, muttering something about it smelling like Taurus Crafts during the summer solstice.

“What am I gonna do, get on chat roulette and ask the guy playing with himself if he wants to hear about my anxiety and parent issues.” Hawke groaned, “Also are we haunted?”

“Merrill says it gets rid of bad vibes,” Varric said with a sagely nod, “And I trust her because she has big eyes and convincing determination.”

“If you continue to fumigate your apartment for spirits I’m leaving.” Anders snorts, wiping savagely at his nose which was already running like an active volcano.

“Stop talking about ghosts, we’re digressing,” Varric snipped, blowing out the Smudge Sticks and throwing them at the coffee table. They missed by about 30cm and hit Hawke's avocado. “Like I said, talk to a stranger. There are plenty of messed up people in this city who would be willing to listen to a stranger rant if they can get a free coffee out of it. Hey, you could hire a struggling college student.”

“So – therapy. You’re asking me to find someone to be my unqualified therapist.” Hawke dragged his hand over his face, frowning as Anders made a grab for his trousers – folded up underneath the coffee table because he didn’t know where was a dog-pee-safe-zone – and began redressing through a hazy hay-fever attack, “I am suddenly reminded why I never take advice from you.”

“Not a stranger then.” Anders practically inhaled the rest of his cereal (drinking the milk which Hawke legitimately grimaced at because _who the heck -_ ) “Just find someone you’re ‘friends’ with and have a chat with them. Acquaintances may be easier to offend by they’re less emotionally harrowing to lose.”

“Blondie’s got a point.” Varric lifted his hand in a motion that suggested he thought he was still holding the Smudge Sticks. He frowned when he flexed his fingers and noticed their absence.

Hawke’s mind clicked instantly and his skull began echoing with the familiar string of words _BAD IDEA! BAD IDEA! BAD IDEA!_

“…Maybe.”

And he was sure it could only get worse from there.

 

“Hi, Fenris.” crouched on the balcony later that evening, Hawke could still here a Gregorian choir showering him in the gospels of their most popular song book _Garrett Hawke’s Bad Life Decisions_ , but he’d decided to put their heavenly voices aside to try and sort out his messed up head. Fenris had seemed just as strung up when they went out with Isabela, and if anything their late night messaging had suggested was true, they shared similar _really weird_ thought patterns and anxieties. Wow, what a good idea Garrett, talking about your insecurities and worries to someone who’s just as messed up as you – drag the _both_ of you into the pit of existentialism and suicidal thoughts.

“Hello.” Fenris sounded like he was holding the phone as far away from his mouth as possible whilst also having a bag tied around his head.

“Why do you sound like your gums are lined with tissue paper?”

“Ulcers.” Fenris said, “My mouth is covered in Bonjela. Speaking is like biting into Vaseline.”

“I’m guessing that is why you’re talking like a robot who can only simulate one short sentence at a time.”

“Yes.”

“Sounds fun.” Hawke attempted a laugh, but he knew he sounded like a dying whale when he faked joy, so he stopped, “So…I’ve had kind of a weird couple days and I was wondering if maybe you’d like to break open a bottle of vodka and talk about how life sucks.”

“I thought you didn’t trust clear liquor.” Fenris droned, sounding like his tongue had been forcibly removed with a rusty chainsaw.

There was a moment when Hawke’s head yelled OH MY GOD HE REMEMBERS THE FIRST PROPER CONVERSATION WE HAD??? but then he was assaulted by the memory of being overcome by the power of social awkwardness and invasively flirting by asking Fenris what _race he was_. It made Hawke think of the weird white kid in every secondary school who doesn’t know how to wear a hat the right way round and has a creepy racial fetish for Asian chicks. He shivered.

“I do when I need to get trashed.” Hawke said.

“Fair enough.” there was a brief noise on the other end of the line which sounded like someone was ripping paper at the speed of light before Fenris spoke again, “Sorry, my phone’s old, it does that sometimes. But, yeah. I’d like to have a drink with you.”

“Is alcohol bad for ulcers…?” Hawke cautioned, worried that his own selfish needs would result not only in depressing his potential more-than-friends-kinda-friend-sorta but also severely injuring his potential more-than-friend-kinda-friend-sorta.

“Probably.” he said, “Who cares.”

“You’re starting to sound like me.”

“Oh the horror.”

“Hey.”

“Sorry.” he was laughing.

 

“So why did you need a drink all of a sudden?”

When Hawke got to Fenris’ apartment (after twenty minutes of awkwardly trying to remember the directions before he realised he’d written them down in his phone’s notes after the first deal) he was surprised to find every piece of rubbish in almost exactly the same place. The dirty takeaway containers were gone, but there were still plenty of t-shirts and books and Ibuprofen packets scattered around.

“Needed easy company,” Hawke stared pointedly at a hole in the dry wall between the kitchen and the living room. “You’re easy to talk to – I hope that doesn’t sound stupid.”

“No.” Fenris smiled as he pulled a bottle of Smirnoff out of his alcohol cupboard, “I enjoy talking to you.”

Hawke’s brain short circuited, and his eyes stayed thoroughly trained on the hole.

“That was there before I moved in.” Fenris coughed nervously, handing Hawke the bottle as he fetched two glasses, “These apartments are all on their last limbs. I’d move out if I could – I just don’t have the money right now.”

_I could have the money. In a week I could have the money to buy all my friends anything they need and I could put you up anywhere you wanted and anywhere you’d be safe and happy –_

“Sucks.” Hawke puffed his cheeks, patting the Smirnoff bottle soundly.

Fenris set the glasses down on the coffee table – stained, scratched, dusty – in the living room. There was a set of old speakers sitting on a shelf above the boxy TV, and Fenris plugged his phone into the AUX with the volume on low.

“I like background music when I talk too.” Hawke chuckled, sinking down into the sad, limp sofa that was a similar grey colour to Hawke’s soul, “…wow. What is that?”

“Blank Banshee.” Fenris said with a nervous smirk, “My music taste is pretentiously obscure - sorry about that.” he made his way to the table and filled his and Hawke’s glasses, taking a seat beside him, “…What did you want to talk about anyway?”

Hawke furrowed his brow, looking at his glass like maybe there was something incredibly interesting at the bottom of it. There wasn’t. Well – there was an engraving that said _Made in Indonesia_ but that was about it.

“…I imagine something’s wrong if you needed to, uh, talk about how life sucks, as you put it.” Fenris said knowingly, a gentle lilt to his voice. “Unless you feel like that all the time.”

“I do.” Hawke slumped, realising he was still wearing his jacket and worrying for a second that his awful fashion taste was offending Fenris. He’d bought it in a charity shop when he was eleven and had probably never gone another day without wearing it. The bright blue, yellow and red was probably the vain of most of his friends’ lives. “But I also, uh, stuff happened.”

Fenris tilted his head.

“…my mum had a heart attack.” he said simply, waiting for the inevitable gasp and rambling apology. It didn’t come. Fenris was quiet and calm. It wasn’t until now that Hawke realised he needed more people to be like that when his life turned upside down on the regular, “The doctors don’t think she’s going to hold out.”

“I see.”

“At least I feel like the situation may have brought me and my brother closer?” Hawke took a regretful gulp of his drink, baring his teeth as it burnt down his throat, “We’ve been like a couple who divorced over infidelity for years now – and uh, I’m not suggesting anything incestual there, I’m literally just saying that’s the way we act around each other.”

Fenris laughed, softly. Hawke’s had conversations with uplifting people before but he feels like Fenris may just be the most unconsciously tact man in the world. That was the most _sensitive laugh he’d ever heard_.

“I didn’t think you were suggesting you had incestual relations with your brother,” he grinned, “…what happened between the two of you?”

“He just…” Hawke squinted, trying to list all of the reasons Carver was the most unappreciated Hawke child. There were too many to count. “My dad was always so caught up in making sure Bethany and I were safe…the whole, uh, mage thing, y’know.” Hawke said it quietly, worried that if he mentioned magic within a metre radius of Fenris he’d explode, “And I guess my mum was always kind of hung up on…well. Me. Kinda. I was the favourite even though I never _did_ anything to vouch it.”

Fenris took half his drink in one gulp, raising his eyebrow for elaboration.

“I think she has a complex. My dad died and I look exactly like him and I guess my mother was just wishing I could fill whatever space he left,” Hawke realised how _heavy_ this was and how he _probably_ shouldn’t be spouting all of this to Fenris at once but somehow it felt right. It felt _so_ right and he never wanted there to be anything Fenris didn’t know about him. “And Bethany and Carver couldn’t give that to her…and they always had each other, so when Bethany left us I guess Carver just…got left behind.”

“Is Bethany your…sister?” Fenris asked tentatively. Hawke nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose,

“She, uh, she died.” he hoped Fenris couldn’t see how watery his eyes were, “She was hit by a guy on a motorcycle.”

“…It must be hard to lose so many people.” Fenris said, and Hawke was so glad there wasn’t a trace of pity in his voice. “I wouldn’t know. My parents died before I was old enough to remember them.”

“I couldn’t imagine life without my parents.” Hawke met his gaze, an awkward moment of _I get it_ before they moved their eyes away again, “Were you, uh, were you a care kid then?”

“My sister and I were supposed to go to her father,” Fenris explained, “We had different dads. Her father was still alive but he was far from being able to care for two small children.” he laughed ruefully, “He left us with a business partner most of the time.”

“What were they like…?”

“Awful, from what I remember. We were with him until we were about twelve before we were legally taken out of his care.” Fenris swallowed deeply, “We were too young to understand at the time but I did some research when I was old enough to leave the care home. He was involved in some government scandal to do with blood magic and human trafficking.”

“…is that why you’re so wary of mages?” Hawke asked.

“Mm.” Fenris nodded, “He used to use animals – for blood magic I think. He even tried to teach my sister at one point.”

Hawke took a thick mouthful of his drink, washing it around his mouth and thinking about how Fenris’ ulcers were probably burning like hell right now. “Your sister’s a mage?”

Fenris nodded, before leaning over to refill his glass, “This doesn’t matter.” he laughed, but there was no joy there, “You came over so you could vent, there was no need for me to off like that…”

“No, I – “ Hawke hesitated, wondering where to draw the line between supportive and creepy, “I enjoy hearing you talk. And I asked anyway. You keep talking if you wish.”

Smiling, Fenris shook his head. He raised his glass jokingly,

“I can tell you need to get this out.” he took a sip as Hawke did, smirking slightly, “Are you worried about your mother?”

“Yeah.” Hawke said, “Of course I am.”

He decided against going on the long spiel that had so shocked Merrill and Isabela. Least of all because he needed to bare more baggage to Fenris – he was just terrified of raising his voice in front of him.

“That was stupid of me to ask. I’m sorry.”

“No, no don’t apologise – “Hawke sighed, fisting his hands into his hair, “I need to be more drunk for this.”

“I agree.”

And Fenris poured him another drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i definitely recommend Blank Banshee, bc even if they are the fundamental weird druggy hipster band they are also SO good and basically the aesthetic for this fic so yeah. get ready for a lot of fenris/hawke bonding time to come as well as PROGRESS wink wonk


	12. Chapter 12

The bottle carried them into the early hours of the morning, Hawke slurring around the edge of his glass and lamenting _why did we drink it straight_ , Fenris wrinkling his nose in endearing laughter and pulling at his gums to show Hawke the slowly reddening ulcers around the roots of his teeth. It was tender in a way Hawke can’t bring himself to describe – he had similar memories of sipping on cranberry and vodkas in Isabela’s bedroom, belching the words to the national anthem whilst Isabela tapped rhythmically on the edge of her bed frame; taking dangerously deep gulps of fire whiskey in Varric’s study, suggesting awful book ideas that they wrote in dry Sharpie across a wad of sticky notes; hazarding shots of illegally fruity cocktails in Merrill’s kitchen, spilling a very pink one down the front of his favourite t-shirt; straight tequila in Anders’ living room that he took one sip of and then felt like ascending; pale cider in a meek pub, Aveline warning him not to get it in his beard.

This felt familiar, and he watched the last drops of the bottle fall plaintively into Fenris’ glass. The dusty clock on the highest shelf, holding up a wall of books and a plastic cup full of pens, read _01:47_ and Hawke puffed a breathy whistle out of his lips.

“Still not entirely sure of this was a fantastic idea or a dreadful one,” Hawke set his glass down decidedly, throwing his gaze back at Fenris who had apparently decide to make himself as small as possible via curling into the corner of the sofa. He looked like a sleepy cat and Hawke wanted to explode.

“Fantastic idea.” Fenris assured through a sleep drunk voice. “Definitely a fantastic idea.”

Hawke laughed, “Well, Mister Fantastic Ideas Hawke didn’t think through the fact that he’s not going to be able to drive home.”

“Do you want me to call you a taxi?” Fenris said with a deflated yawn, reaching for the house phone on the shelf behind the sofa.

“Taxis terrify me.” Hawke admitted with a creased brow, “They’re okay with other people but the idea of getting into a car with a stranger all by myself is the kind of thing I used to have nightmares about when I was eight.”

“You have a very good memory.” Fenris said, withdrawing his hand, wrapping his arms around one of the sofa cushions.

“I started growing this when I was fifteen,” Hawke lay his hands on his cheeks, scrubbed his fingers through his beard, “And I brought this when I was eleven,” he tugged at the zipper of his jacket, “Everyone wanted one of these in the 90s and even if it was like 500 sizes too big for me at the time tiny Garrett Hawke decided he needed one.”

A hiccupy giggle bubbled its way out of Fenris’ lips, “I can imagine.” Hawke was trying to contain how _cute_ that was but unsurprisingly it was very hard. “…if you’re not down to get a taxi you may stay the night if you want, I could take the sofa – “

“Oh no - ! I mean, wait, no, I mean. Thanks! I would really appreciate staying the night actually, and that’s, uh, that’s really sweet of you but I could never – I couldn’t take your bed.” Hawke bit aggressively into the collar of his jacket to ensure he didn’t embarrass himself any further. Fenris’ brows furrowed, but he smiled,

“You could have just said you’d prefer to take the sofa.”

“Yes, I, um, I’ll take the sofa.” Hawke sighed, “Thank you, Fenris.”

 

Sofa hangovers are something that, most unfortunately, Hawke was very familiar with. Pounding head, pulsing eyelids and a swimming sensation in the pit of your stomach? Sofa hangover.

He rolled over onto his side, reaching for his phone, hidden somewhere beneath the pile of clothes he’d shed the night before like an astoundingly large butterfly. He’d decided being naked and sleeping on someone else’s sofa was too far across the line, and was still wearing his underwear at least.

Two messages glared at him through early morning light, only just illuminating the room as pale beams bled through the curtains. A message from Varric and a message from Carver.

_The guys want to come and test out the stuff today. i figure you don’t want to be around with a bunch of strangers right now. you can stay wherever the hell you are if it makes you feel better_

and

_Heard back from the hospital. They found traces of nicotine_

Two hurriedly tapped replies before rolling back into his blanket cocoon,

_thanks if it’s alright with fenris I’ll stay probably_

and

_she told us she never smoked_

Slipping in and out of consciousness for what was maybe an hour more, Hawke was finally awoken by the sound of crockery clicking together in a cupboard. He cracked one eye open, staring up at the water stained ceiling. There was movement in the kitchen.

“I hope you like off brand cereal.” Fenris emerged from the kitchen, hair messy, glasses slipping down his nose, and all wrapped in what was probably the only blanket in the apartment he hadn’t given to Hawke the previous night. He had a chipped blue bowl in his hand. “Dry off brand cereal. I’m out of milk.”

“Sounds delightful.” Hawke rolled sluggishly off of the sofa, grasping his blankets with the convicted terror of someone who wasn’t ready to show his horrifically hairy chest to a man this attractive. He took the bowl from Fenris with a polite nod, stared uncertainly at its contents. “…what are you eating?”

“Nothing,” he yawned, “Feel a bit sick after last night.”

“Oh…you’re okay right?” Hawke pouted. He wanted to reach out, place a comforting hand on Fenris’ shoulder. The uncertainty in his chest was heavy – when was the right time to initiate friendly contact? Is that something people even _think_ about? “Like, you don’t need to throw up or anything?”

A nod and a groggy smile, “No, I’m fine, Hawke. Thank you.” he scrubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses, collapsed into the armchair opposite the sofa. “I’m just glad it’s the weekend – I can’t afford to miss a day off work at the moment.”

“How are you…” Hawke stared at a spoonful of suspiciously Shreddies like cereal. “… _financially_?”

“Not good.” Fenris snorted into the back of his palm, head craned into the space between his shoulder and the back of the chair. “I can afford to buy food and not much else.”

A resounding pan of guilt hit Hawke, making his shoulders and chest heavy. He felt his lungs and heart tight against his ribcage, his face stretching into a thin grimace. He was always like this. Memories of walking into Merrill’s apartment for the first time (banging his head on the door frame, knocking over a small spider plant, asking where the rest was and Merrill sort of just _gesturing_ ) bombarded him, brought with them that same feeling of _you deserve so much better_.

“That really…sucks.” Hawke hesitantly began eating the cereal, crunching down on what could probably have been sugar glazed cardboard for all he knew. “That really _really_ sucks.”

Hollow and wistful, a sighed escaped Fenris like he was deflating, and Hawke watched as his shoulder slumped.

“That about sums it up, doesn’t it?” he gave Hawke a weak smile, “It sucks.”

“Y’know,” Hawke placed his cereal aside, deciding he could do without inedible food lying around in the pit of his stomach for weeks. “Varric and I got a big order on our stuff. Like, a _big_ order.” Hawke wrung his fingers together nervously, “And we’re probably going to have more money than we know what to do with by the time we have everything sorted – “

“I know what you’re going to suggest – “

“No, hear me out.” Hawke felt awful cutting him off, but Fenris fell respectively silent, folding his hands in his lap and cocking his head. Waiting for Hawke to continue. “I don’t know what to do with money. Most likely I’d just buy loads of cookies or muffins or something. I’ve already told my friend Merrill that I would be more than okay with helping her out with financial stuff. Neither of you are in a great position and helping you both would make me feel so much better.”

Fenris squinted, eyebrows furrowed.

“I…Hawke, I don’t…” he sighed, grabbing a fistful of his own hair, “Okay. Okay, I’ll think about it. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_.” Hawke muttered, just audibly, as he picked his cereal back up.

 

The bus-trip back to Hawke’s place was only ten minutes, but being pressed between Fenris and an old lady who smelt like tinned tomatoes for that long was enough to get him both terrified and excited all at once. He clutched his jacket zipper between his thumb and finger, so tight that the logo of a discontinued company was pressed clean red and white into the creases of his skin.

Fenris had said Hawke could stay for as long as the apartment would be overrun by strange druggies, and Hawke needed clean clothes and underwear, a toothbrush and also probably Barkimedes to keep him sane in the two to three days he wouldn’t be in his own bed.

“You’re sure you’re alright with me bringing the dog over?” Hawke asked, shoving his hands into his pockets as he jumped from the bus. His complex was maybe two streets away, but light rain was falling in chilling spatters. Perhaps smarter than Hawke, Fenris had brought his coat with him. Meanwhile, Hawke suffered in technicolour nylon.

“It’s fine.” Fenris huffed, his breath like cotton wool as it turned to steam, “I like dogs.”

“Good,” Hawke shrunk back into his jacket collar, “Because even if Barkimedes is tiny he is also the doggest dog ever to dog.”

 

Hawke puzzled for five whole minutes over how many pairs of underwear he’d need, stuffing random (and awful) clothing combinations into an old threadbare holdall. Faint muttering could be heard from the kitchen, Varric sitting on the kitchen counter alongside their stock, impishly probing at Fenris, sat more civilly at the kitchen table.

Hawke’s phone started ringing, and he kicked his bedroom door closed.

“Hello,” he said, pressing his phone between his shoulder and his ear. He decided to bung half his underwear drawer into the bag because he was bad at estimating amounts in the cases of imaginary situations. He had vivid memories of being asked similar questions in GSCE maths and almost having a breakdown with his tutor because _no one needs to know the value of x_.

“So,” Isabela’s words are covered in syrup and Hawke already knows he’s about to be roasted, “Varric tells me you’ll be staying a few nights with Fenris.”

He could _hear_ her raising her eyebrows.

“Yes. I am staying at Fenris’. I’m staying at Fenris’ for a few friendly nights of conversation and light drinking,” he frowned at a pair of unwashed socks and then bunged them in anyway, “Nothing more.”

“ _Nothing_?” she purred.

“Nothing.”

“Not even a _little_ bit of flirting?”

“I don’t know how to flirt, Bela,” he caught Barkimedes’ eye from across the room. He never knew small fat dogs could look so judgemental, “Remember the disappearing hands incident?”

“Some people just don’t like flirting about existentialism,” Isabela _psshed_ loudly between her words, “Why don’t you just tell him about some of your _fantasies_.”

“I don’t think he wants to know about me living in a log cabin in the mountains with three dogs and also maybe him.”

“You know what kind of fantasies I mean Hawke.”

“We live in a log cabin in the mountains with three dogs and sometimes we get it on but it’s like _super_ vanilla.”

“You’re the most boring person alive,” Isabela groaned, the sound of her jewellery jingling filled Hawke’s ears. “Be forward with him! Flirt! Flirt like your emotional and mental state relies on it!”

Hawke opened his bedroom door softly, padding to the bathroom where he grabbed a toothbrush and his towel.

“I think my emotional and mental state would be better off if I _didn’t_ flirt with him.” Hawke said, lowering his voice so that they didn’t hear him in the kitchen.

“You’ll be sad and lonely forever if you don’t.” Isabela’s undoubtedly pouty lips smacked against the receiver, making Hawke cringe. He hated mouth noises.

“I’m sad and lonely already, I don’t think it will make much difference.”

“Oh, boo.”

 

It took Hawke perhaps twenty minutes to pack his bag, and another five to get Barkimedes calm enough to not writhe around in his arms when he picked him up, lead wrapped around his wrist.

They stopped at a café, taking advantage of the dissipating rain and sitting outside. They were beneath awning somewhat, red and white stripes like a huge chunk of candy cane, but Hawke stuck his nose out frequently so he could feel cold late morning air on his face. Barkimedes curled up into a grumpy ball beneath the table.

“Were you talking to Isabela?” Fenris asked after the waiter had come and gone with their drinks, “On the phone, I mean.”

Hawke nodded, “How could you tell?” he held his hot chocolate tightly to warm his hands – he wasn’t sure how Fenris was drinking ice tea in this weather.

“I heard you mention flirting. One would assume Isabela was involved.” he smirked and Hawke’s stomach did a backflip.

“Was I really talking that loudly?”

“You have quite a loud voice.”

Laughing, Hawke ran through every possible excuse he could think of as to why he was talking about flirting. It would be too obvious to just say Isabela was the perpetrator, but at the same time an easy getaway. And it was hardly as if he could tell the _truth_.

“Yeah, well,” he sighed into his mug, “Bela wants me to get back into the dating pool,” lying via omission. A Hawke speciality. “I haven’t really _been_ with anyone in months now. I just haven’t been up to it I suppose.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard for you to find someone,” Fenris said quietly – hesitantly almost. A hot flush rose in Hawke’s cheeks and he was glad he hadn’t had a proper shave in a while. “You’re a handsome man, Hawke.”

He wanted his chuckle to sound light and fluttery, but it sounded more like he was choking on his drink.

“I don’t know. Looking good is one thing but,” he scratched his head thoughtfully, “I’m not good at… _interaction_. I have too many insecurities. I scare people off.”

“I doubt you _scare_ them off, Hawke.” Fenris raised an eyebrow, obviously unconvinced.

“I used to try and be funny with people by saying stuff that’s honestly terrifying.” Hawke began, breathing in deeply like he was about to tell some epic tale. “Like, once a guy told me that we have a lot in common and I said _you lie awake at night questioning your existence and also whether or not your hands are attached to your body too?_ and apparently talking about dissociation is not a good way to flirt because I think that guy left the party after that.”

The couple at the table behind them paused in conversation briefly. A woman wrapped in a thick, leafy scarf gave Hawke a weird look before resuming her gossip. Hawke would feel embarrassed, but her dish water blonde hair was in a perm that looked like a drowned poodle so he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“…once I sat on the bathroom floor for an hour because I couldn’t relate to my own reflection.” Fenris ran his finger of the edge of his glass, head tipped forward, giving Hawke a fond look from beneath his brow. He sounded embarrassed and that made Hawke’s heart swell.

“If only _you_ had been the guy I’d flirted with about dissociation.” Hawke let out a breathy laugh, raking his fingers down his face. “These are the reasons I don’t get out much. I’m not like other people. And I don’t mean that in a pretentious way I mean it in a ‘if a see a dead animal in the road I will cry’ way.”

“I assume your work doesn’t really help you get out much,” Fenris kneaded the edge of the table, “So…what do you do?”

“Bed.” Hawke said, “I sleep and lie in my bed and that’s kind of it.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

“No, I mean it!” Hawke insisted, “The world is cold and full of awful people,” he planted his lips heavily against the edge of his mug, “But beds are warm and usually full of either yourself or a lovely person that you’re sharing a bed with and that’s why I prefer beds to everything in the world.”

Smiling softly, Fenris leant back in his chair. He nodded slightly, gaze planted firmly on his knee.

“That’s I nice way of thinking about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much happens in this chapter but i get antsy and twitchy when i don't update so hERE HAVe filler....  
> i was listening to the animal crossing:wild world ost whilst writing this and i almost cried from an attack of nostalgia


	13. Chapter 13

“I won’t lie – I did leave last night because I needed someone to talk to, or whatever,” the skies were grey, but the rain had stopped falling – even so, Hawke hadn’t been ecstatic about walking back, and when he had hidden Barkimedes inside his jacket as an attempt to smuggle him onto the bus they were denied a ride back to Fenris’ block. Most other walkers had scurried into shops away from the rain, and even now when only murky puddles remained like petrol leaks on the pavement, most of them remained inside. “But I also kind of needed to get out because Varric had been waving around a giant blunt and it smelt like someone had had a séance in our apartment.”

“A giant blunt?”

“Smudge sticks.”

“That makes more sense.” Fenris wiped absent mindedly at his nose, “Though honestly a giant blunt does sound like a very _Hawke_ thing.”

“Are you suggesting my entire life is drug oriented?” Hawke joked, watching Barkimedes fall over his own feet up ahead.

“Well, hawk is street slang for LSD.” Fenris said quietly, a crooked smirk falling into the collar of his coat. “Obviously you were destined.”

“I suppose I must have been,” Hawke replied as his phone began buzzing in his pocket. He reached for it, turning his gaze to Fenris, “Are you okay if I take this?”

Nodding, Fenris took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, obviously stocking himself with entertainment whilst Hawke chatted. He wrestled around in his coat pocket for a lighter, and frowned when he couldn’t find it. Hawke accepted the call and flicked his fingers gently against the end of the cigarette. There was a lukewarm hesitation in Fenris’ eyes before he nodded in thanks, raising the gently glowing cigarette to his lips.

“Hello?” Hawke could feel the dumb smile on his face, watching the smoke curl out of Fenris’ lips and the wind pull at his fringe.

“I’m actually dying,” Anders’ voice filtered scratchily through the phone.

“Have you run out of vegan food again?” Hawke replied, deciding to ignore that Anders forewent a greeting, “Because you’re poor as dirt and comfort eat at every given opportunity.”

“Yes,” Anders huffed, “And also my throat has swollen up or something – anyway,”

The delightful sound of Anders coughing up phlegm swam through Hawke’s ears, so loud perhaps that the furrow of Fenris’ eyebrows was due to the fact that the noise carried. Hawke pursed his lips as if to apologise for the noise that he didn’t even make.

“Why didn’t you tell me you and Varric are going to be rich?” his voice, thick with sickness and sleeplessness, made Hawke’s spine rigid. _Rich_. God, he hoped. As much as he hated lying awake at night over the guilt of _I’ve done nothing to deserve this_ , there was an electric charge of a feeling that came with the idea of being financially stable for the rest of his life. It felt like when he channelled magic through his hands and left it simmer against his palms until it fell between the borders of painful and exhilarating.

He stopped doing that when he was about twenty two after he realised how oddly masturbatory it was.

“If it’s any consolation for forgetting to tell you,” Hawke raked his fingers through the windswept tangles in his hair, “I promise I’ll buy you every type of expensive vegan food and exotic vegetable I can find in the whole foods section.”

“Whilst I appreciate your consideration,” Anders wheezed, “I actually wanted to see how you…are?”

Hawke let his breathe drift, listening to Anders rustling on the other end of the line.

“I mean…” Anders said, after meeting no reply, “Varric told me you received the order before what happened with your mother. So, I guess right now is a really confusing time for you?”

Hawke kicked an empty can of Fanta into the road, sighing when a Renault drove past and barely clipped it with its butchered tyres. Fenris was reaching to pick up Barkimedes as he’d passive aggressively plopped himself down in the middle of a dirty puddle. He squirmed in protest before settling against Fenris’ chest – and probably getting muddy paw prints all over his clothes.

“I guess,” a cloud of second hand smoke from Fenris’ cigarette drifted towards Hawke. He breathed it in instinctively, “Half of my brain is throwing a party in honour of financial stability whilst the other has basically shut off because my mother could die any day now.”

He neglected to mention having suicidal thoughts in the hospital bathroom, though apparently Anders could read his mind.

“If all else fails we can always make a suicide pact.” Anders chanced a laugh, “It’s not like either of us have great lives.”

“Who are we, the Church of Euthanasia?” Hawke replied softly, a smile in his voice but not on his face. Up ahead Fenris was reading a poster pasted messily against a lamppost, Barkimedes flopping contentedly off his shoulder.

“I’m so mad I know what you mean.” Anders blew his nose loudly after speaking, and Hawke waited for him to finish to reply.

“Wow, really?”

“Merrill sent me a link in the middle of the night and I had to eat three bowls of salad before I calmed down.”

“Eating salad to calm yourself down,” a fat raindrop splashed onto Hawke’s nose, dragging his eyes towards the pale grey blue of the mid-morning sky. A ruffled pigeon soared overhead, most probably scoping out the nearest bench where delighted tourists were throwing chips to birds. “That’s so _Anders_ of you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Anders’ sandpaper voice crawled lethargically around in Hawke’s headspace. He subconsciously pressed his ear against his phone, “This is about you, not some crazy death cult.”

“Touching.” Hawke said, “I know for a fact that you and Aveline are probably the only people who would say that. Varric and Isabela would be all over their Wikipedia page. _Hell_ , imagine how hopped up Merrill would be on that creepy trash.”

“Garrett Hawke,” Anders sighed, “the reigning champion of talking about himself until it’s serious. Second place in beating around the bush.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop. What does Doctor Anders recommend I do to make myself happier?”

The line rustled and muffled movements swam about the shell of Hawke’s ear. Latent meows laced the hypothetical background noise that Anders was creating. Hawke shook himself almost aggressively when the word _hypothetical_ surfaced in the pool of thoughts. Disassociating again – comparing someone he only hears rather than sees to someone who only exists in his head. This happened more than he would like to admit.

He remembered calling Aveline one summer, dripping sweat through every inch of his stained gym shorts and rolled-sleeve t-shirt, his phone barely cradled in the clawed curve of his fingers. Somehow he’d lost Varric at a farm sale, and he’d sat contently between a crate of peaches and lemons, listened to Aveline’s calm voice through the phone and locked himself firmly in the celestial crawlspace between his skull and his brain. When Hawke was on the phone he could pretend it was just a voice in his head, that the world that existed around that person didn’t exist, and he was alone in the space he’d made his own.

This was why, when Varric finally found Hawke crouched sleepily with his sunglasses propped upside on his nose, he’d brought a bag full of peaches from the blonde girl who was selling them. For the next week Hawke could take a bight into a peach and find his stress melt away until he was sitting in a warm field with Aveline’s steady voice calming him down.

“Well Doctor Anders suggests,” Hawke’s brain slowly begins to wake up when Anders’ voice breaks an artificial reality that he had been constructing within thoughts, “That Mister Hawke drinks a lot of water, gets a lot of sleep, and talks about his problems to his friends.”

“Mister Hawke suggests that Doctor Anders stops being such a nerd before he gets shoved in a locker.”

“You sleep all day, Hawke.”

“Yes _but_ I have an aversion to water because alcohol and chocolate milk exist.”

“Talk to whoever it is you’re staying with. Frederick – or whatever his name was.” Anders’ laugh bubbles out unexpectedly and Hawke can’t help a gentle smile, “I need to leave, Pounce will actually eviscerate me if I don’t feed him.”

“Send pictures.” Hawke calls jauntily as a low beep rings out of the receiver, Ander hanging up and his picture (from Merrill’s Christmas party last year, he has reindeer antlers on and Varric is shoving a plastic spoon in his mouth) flickers softly on the phone screen. “And thanks.”

 

“I imagine you want some time to yourself,” upon entering Fenris’ apartment Barkimedes had skittered across the hardwood floors and run directly into a wall. The crunch noise his wrinkly face made sounded painful, but he was on all fours again in seconds, tumbling somewhere else to explore the new space, “Feel free to settle down anywhere, I’ll stay out of your way – and keep the dog occupied if you’d like me to.”

“I – I mean, you don’t have to,” Hawke brushed awkwardly at his neck, “I don’t want to restrict you in your own home.”

“You’re not restricting me,” Fenris smiled softly, shrugging off his coat, “If you need space then you need space, I’m no one to stop you.”

“…Really?” Hawke removed his jacket hesitantly, playing with the zip until he could feel it pressing patterns into his thumb again. Fenris took the jacket from him gently, hanging it up alongside his own.

“Really. You find yourself a place to calm down. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Thank you, Fenris.”

“It’s no problem.”

 

Carver’s texts began pouring in mid-afternoon, waking Hawke from an in-and-out sleep that left him light headed and flighty. His phone was vibrating on the coffee table, and he stretched to grab it, feeling something in his shoulder pop.

_Her doctor spoke to her about it_

_She said that she smoked when she was stressed or upset_

_Never told us about it_

_Almost half a pack every day_

Sliding his fingers incorrigibly across the phone screen, Hawke tapped out a reply that he felt too detached to relate to. There was a swirling sensation in his head; the words he saw popping up on his screen didn’t feel like they were his.

_what was she so stressed about_

The speed with which Carver replied made Hawke’s stomach bubble uncomfortably.

_Are you actually asking me that?_

_What do you think she’s stressed about garrett?_

Hawke pressed his phone to his forehead, groaning against his wrists. The living room was all quiet, too stiff and musty. The windows were closed – and would probably stay that way if the darkening clouds meant anything – and the air felt so suffocating. Replying felt like giving himself a death sentence.

_please dont be like this carver_

bzzt

_Please don’t be like what?_

_All im doing is telling the truth_

There was a long pang of silence that lingered between the two centimetre space from Hawke’s phone screen to the pads of his thumbs. He considered just typing out _sorry_ and then flinging himself back into a restless sleep on someone else’s wiry, bumpy sofa. He thought about how calm he’d felt in the hospital car park, staring Carver down in a way that seemed understanding rather than challenging for once. He felt like breaking before his phone buzzed again.

_But I don’t care_

_The doctors say it’s likely she’ll have another attack_

_And that one might take her out_

_Just think about this_

_Think about the person youre making yourself out to be_

Dropping his phone back on the coffee table, Hawke curled around himself on the sofa, reached for a greying pillow, wrapped it around his ears, and cried.

 

He woke to a mug on the coffee table, a blue bowl of suspiciously coloured soup steaming beside it and Barkimedes draped decidedly over his legs. Hawke pulled himself from beneath the cushion, eyes adjusting and cheeks cracking as dry cracks left from his tears pulled and pushed against each other. Balled comfortably into an armchair beside the television, Fenris had a book in his lap and his fingers wrapped around a chipped mug. He looked up swiftly when Hawke made a laboured noise.

“I brought you dinner,” Fenris nodded to the clock on the shelf above him, “You were out for quite a while. I’m surprised you slept through the storm.”

Hawke swung his legs over the edge of the sofa, making a grab for the mug – tea. The windows were blackened, and rain pelted mercilessly against the glass. A cold shiver gripped Hawke’s spine as he thought of lightning and thunder and all of the thing it shook. He had a strong desire to return to his apartment.

“Thank you.” he rasped, tilting the mug to his lips, hissing as it burnt the tip of his tongue. Fenris laughed softly to himself, muttering something about waiting for it to cool. “I haven’t been too much of a nuisance have I? Passed out in your living room all day…”

“You needed the rest,” Fenris closed his book and slipped it into place on the shelf. “Or at least…I assumed you did.”

“I did.” Hawke grinned, his eyebrows knitting together. “What’s the soup?”

“Chicken…I think.”

“That’s an encouraging reply.”

“Just eat it.”

“Alright, alright.”

 

Fenris excused himself at around ten, stating that he wouldn’t usually be sleeping this early, but Hawke obviously needed his space. He had toyed nervously with the door knob before leaving, glancing over his shoulder at Hawke.

“…I know you’re in a really bad place right now,” his voice escaped in a rush of air, and Hawke strained himself to hear properly, “But I think you have it in you to get past it. If you ever need to talk…well, I’m here.” he coughed awkwardly, straightening up as he made his way down the hall, “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you get hungry. The dog can have, like, sausages or mince or whatever, I don’t know.”

The door shut with a click, and Hawke reached for the hold all he’d so lovingly packed with everything he needed. He hastily shucked off his clothes – all but for his underwear – and wrapped himself up in a dressing gown that was maybe two years old but still the comfiest thing he owned. Yawning, Hawke realised that – even after the soup – he was still hungry.

 

Intimacy was always something that Hawke had applied to being in someone else’s house without them there. Fenris _was_ there, of course, but he was in another room, arguably non-existent if Hawke blocked out all life beyond the musty confines of these pale tiled walls. He could taste the bitter tang of neo-romanticism that he applied to everything possible in the vain hope that maybe he could spark an unlikely love story like how it goes in books and movies. There’s an urge in his veins that feels like ice, and every synapse in his brain crackles excitedly. At first he thinks he’s just blown a fuse somewhere inside himself, a little pop of magic that made his nervous system shut down, but then the room explodes into white, and the windows shake, and he feels electricity in every inch of his body, and he hears the smash of a food filled bowl that he barely remembers preparing.

A minute and a half of heavy breathing and thunder rumbling that Hawke can’t quite make clear, and then:

“Hawke I heard a crash, are you – “ the door creaked softly in the still of the night, interrupting the ACs gentle humming as it skimmed the stained kitchen floor, “Oh, um…”

Hawke was crammed into the L shape between two cupboards, staring sadly at the smashed remnants of a ceramic bowl and the spilled ramen noodles on the kitchen floor in front of him. Head buried in his knees, his heart hammering and his eyes red with tears, he looked up at Fenris and felt his lip beginning to shake again.

“I was…the thunder made me jump, I – I’m sorry, I didn’t….” his voice cracked painfully, “I promise I’m not usually like this. It’s been a tough week.”

Fenris didn’t say anything, but he knelt on the floor with a placid set to his brow and cleaned whilst the ceiling rattled with the storm and the windows lit up with lightning. Fenris collected up the largest shards of broken bowl and sticky clumps of ramen, chucking them in the bin. Dishes were soaking peacefully in the sink, and Fenris swept the damp dishcloth over the yellow – brown stains that clouded the tiles.

“Don’t apologise.” Fenris said, and sat cross-legged in front of Hawke smiling serenely. “I understand.”

Hawke sniffed messily, his cheeks burning and toes curling. There was a horrible, whining voice at the back of his head hissing about how he was annoying Fenris by breaking things in his house and wasting his food. It clawed at his ears and told him that he looked like an idiot sat in his dressing gown and his underwear, crying over an accident. His throat swelled up and his lip shook and he squeezed his eyes shut angrily before a pathetic sob wobbled its way out of him.

“Hawke…” Fenris reached out with a wary hand, pressing his fingers tentatively to a wiry haired cheek. Hawke’s heat began to pulsate wildly in his chest, skin heating up against Fenris’ touch. “You should tell someone about how you’re feeling.”

“I just want to stop feeling like this.” he choked, raking a hand through his hair, thinking for a second about pulling it all out, “I want to know how to wake up and not feel like something’s ripping me up from the inside out.”

“If you ever figure it out…” Fenris sidled up to Hawke’s side, resting his forehead against the cupboard, his hand still pressed calmly to Hawke’s cheek. “…make sure to let me know.”

A watery laugh trickled out of Hawke’s lips, “I will.” he muttered, blinking groggily.

Jolting like a whipped horse, Hawke stuck his head in between his legs and groaned as the thunder rumbled angrily through the overcast sky. The glow of lightning cast a nano-second of highlights over the walls, and Fenris frowned, turning his hand to the crown of Hawke’s head.

“If I tell you that I’m a whimpering astraphobic you won’t laugh, will you?” he whispered.

“You just did.” Fenris’ voice weaved through the charged air like a gentle defuse, and Hawke leant into the soft press of Fenris’ shoulder.

“Then thank you for not laughing.” he flinched at another rumble, and curled in even tighter than was probably humanly possible. “…there’s a reason I prefer to use fire.”

“…What caused this?” Fenris asked, a cautious hand travelling from Hawke’s face to around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight side embrace.

“I talked to my brother,” Hawke snorted, pulling his hand wretchedly across the snot he was leaking all over himself, “Said the reason mum had a heart attack is because she’s been basically chain-smoking for years and she wasn’t even telling us. Apparently it was because she was stressed and apparently – “Hawke choked on his tongue then, pressing his hand against his mouth like maybe if he didn’t say anything then it wouldn’t have to be true. He wanted to inhale everything around him until all that was left was him and darkness and an eternity to sit in the quiet, “Apparently it was my fault.”

Fenris stiffened, a rhythm that he’d been tapping reassuringly against Hawke’s neck slowing until his fingers almost dug into his jaw. A harsh breath whistled from his nose.

“I’m sure that’s not true…”

“My mother used to push every piece of blame she could on me,” he whispered, “Never was ever her fault. It’s like I said…my dad was gone and I was the man of the house and that meant I had to take care of people. Even my own mother.”

Hawke could feel Fenris nodding against him. The pressure of his torso against Hawke’s shoulders felt like third degree burns all over his skin. He was holding his breath for it all to be over in a second, but nothing changed. Fenris continued holding him close and Hawke continued to feel like he was being steamed in a pressure cooker.

“…tell me about your father.” Fenris said, and Hawke’s flood gate mouth opened with little encouragement.

“I think he basically set up my future by giving me his genes,” Hawke started, “Because he was a mage but he was also a raging druggie in his early thirties.”

Fenris chuckled and Hawke pressed his face against his arm.

“He was always either the happiest or angriest man on earth. He was just always so,” he gestured vaguely, “Extra. But his heart was set on making sure Bethany and I were safe, so I guess he kind of mellowed as he got older. I don’t know if that was my mum or the fact that he’d stopped doing drugs but…it was strange to see my dad go through such a drastic personality swing.” he stopped short, plucking absent mindedly at a thick line of hair around the dip between his thigh and his knee. “And uh…then…when he got ill too. That was…that was odd. Watching him deteriorate like that…”

Hawke thought of his twelve year old self sitting in a chair beside a hospital bed, listening to his father whisper out jokes and stories. They’d visited every week, his mother bouncing the twins on her lap, adding into the conversation every now and then – but everyone knew this was about Hawke. Bethany and Carver would never remember Malcolm’s face clearly enough to cry about losing him, but Hawke was going to have to drag himself through the rest of his life with a cold bag of memories at his feet. By sixteen he was getting used to waking up and seeing his father staring out the mirror at him.

He coughed, shaking away the tears that were beginning to bubble at the corners of his eyes,

“He’s also the reason several magic related things are illegal in Yorkshire.”

“What a mantle to live up to.”

Hawke’s brow furrowed softly.

“…Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's been eighty six years since i updated but i've been so ill i literally haven't been in school for a week so i believe that calls for forgiveness. yes? yes
> 
> this chapter isnt that great but i felt bad just leaving the face of the earth for eternity so here's this unedited trASH


	14. Chapter 14

Hawke woke with a heavy coating of guilt on his tongue, tucked away in sheets that smelt like sandalwood and lime, lying on the lumpy mattress that Fenris had let him take for the night. The storm had kept him awake early into the morning, but as the lightning illuminated the room in barebones white, he’d passed the time by picking out different things in Fenris’ room. He counted an old guitar case hidden beneath a cardboard box of VHS tapes; an ash tray, overflowing with butts, that hung precariously over the edge of the bedside table; a rolled up poster for a band Hawke only sort of recognised but were indie enough that he didn’t feel bad about misplacing the name; three apple cores in a wire waste paper bin that were beginning to grow fuzz; an ancient record player tucked into the corner that creaked every time the shaking windows forced the curtains into its funnel.

When morning light had finally hit the windows and Hawke entered the world of the living out of three hours’ sleep’s broken backdoor, everything seemed a little more real, and the thin layer of dust made him feel like this room hadn’t been used in years. The sheets were tangled in his legs, and he pressed the corner of the grey duvet cover to his nose to breathe in the smell. Fully aware this was a creepy thing to do he didn’t let himself close his eyes, because then he could trick himself into believing that lying in someone else’s bed in his underwear with his dog sleeping soundly under an old desk didn’t strike a tired chord of intimacy that was buried somewhere deep in the cavity of his chest.

His dressing gown had been discarded on the floor the night before, when Fenris had had to lead Hawke in by his arm, lower him into the bed despite his blubbering and his hacking. Hawke’s last memory that wasn’t the room shaking with shadows was Fenris looking softly at the dressing gown and hanging it up on the door hook. Fondness made Hawke’s throat feel warm, and he coughed into the back of his hand before dragging himself out of the bed and donning the dressing gown. Barkimedes was blinking at him in a way that almost looked drunk, and he managed to drag himself to his feet so he could sniff at Hawke’s ankles.

“Thank you for not screaming like a banshee in Fenris’ house.” Hawke leant down to wrap his big hands around Barkimedes’ tiny shivering torso, and it felt like six years ago when he’d found a near dead puppy hiding in a plastic box in the wet alleyway between a Chinese takeaway and an out of business shoe shop. “Good boy.”

Fenris was curled on the sofa in the living room, eating a dry croissant as he dragged his fingers back and forth over the busted TV remote. It was wrapped three times over with novelty construction tape and made a cracking noise every time he punched in a new channel number. Early morning TV surfing – Hawke was familiar.

“You’re awake,” Fenris said over his shoulder, not looking away from the TV with the broken pixels as Hawke took a seat in the armchair, Barkimedes happily dozing in his lap already. “Did you sleep well?”

Hawke nodded, trying not to think about the guitar case or the apple cores or the cigarettes or any other thing in this god damn house which made him feel like he had any idea who Fenris was. Instead he pinched his philtrum and tried a raspy chuckle, “Yeah, thank you. You use the same detergent as Varric.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

“Sandalwood and lime.” he said, folding one of Barkimedes’ ridiculously large ears, “I always know when it’s time to put the sheets back in the wash because they stop smelling like someone rubbed them all over a log cabin.”

Smiling, Fenris snapped the better half of his croissant and offered it to Hawke with a furrowed brow,

“I have nothing left in the cupboards,” he said, “So if you want to eat before I go out in a minute you might want to take it while you can.”

Hawke smiled in thanks and took the croissant, ate it whilst trying to scatter minimal crumbs over the dog and in his beard. It didn’t work very well. When he followed Fenris into the kitchen where he kept his keys he caught his reflection in the mirror and grimaced.

“It’s all over you.” Fenris laughed, fishing a damp wash cloth from the sink and pushing it at Hawke, “Wipe yourself up and then get dressed. I’ll buy us proper breakfast if you want.”

“No, I should get it,” Hawke said as he combed the cloth through his beard, “If I’m staying it’s the least I can do.”

“That is good of you, Hawke – thank you.”

“No problem.”

 

Town on Sunday morning was a slow burning cycle of old people waddling through charity shops and market stores, teenagers sitting on curb sides with too many energy drinks and a depressed cloud hanging above their heads because it’s _Sunday_ , and middle aged couples mingling in wine bars and tea shops until it was late afternoon and they had an excuse to buy expensive lunches that were hardly worth the money.

Hawke stood beneath the tepid airflow of Tesco Express’s vent, shuffling awkwardly every time someone tried to manoeuvre around him, whilst Fenris shot around the aisles with the determination of a man who _really_ wanted his cheap wine and microwavable meals for two. Every time a teenager in stonewashed denim walked past he instantly regretted wearing cut-offs, and felt very much like he was having a midlife crisis despite only being twenty five.

“I look like a dad who’s trying to be cool around his child’s friends.” Hawke whined as Fenris wandered into the aisle that he had proudly staked out in. Fenris snorted as he grabbed a block of cheese, pushing his glasses into his hairline as he squinted at the small writing along its packaging.

“Those kind of dads are at least early forties and unless you’re doing very well for your age I doubt you’re that old, Hawke.”

“Parents are getting younger and younger.” Hawke said under his breath, following stiffly as Fenris bee-lined between the aisles to the checkouts.

“Do you want any cigarettes?” Fenris asked, stepping in line behind a girl with hair the colour of the actual _sun_. Hawke was distracted by how orange it was before coming back to reality and coughing awkwardly.

“Um, yes, Hamlets, please. I’ll pay you back.”

 

“My manager is ill,” Fenris said conversationally over a fork full of fried egg. After buying enough milk and bread to supply a small army of cats, Fenris had wrapped the plastic loop handles of the shopping bag tightly around his fists and suggested they get breakfast somewhere. Hawke had picked the first place with wide windows and cakes in a display case because he was nothing if not indulgent, and planted himself and Fenris in a cushy booth at the back of the café. The meals were mediocre at best, but they’d been cheap, so no one was complaining. Especially not Fenris it seemed, now that his plate was almost half clean, “She called me this morning and told me not to bother going in tomorrow because I’d be the only one at the parlour.”

Hawke wiped his mouth on the corner of a napkin, consequently smearing ketchup all over his moustache. He dipped a different corner into is glass of water and dabbed at his face.

“Day off then?” Hawke watched Fenris stab the last remnants of bacon and sausage on his plate, pushing aside his finished meal. He laced his fingers together beneath his chin and Hawke felt like he’d never seen anything more elegant.

“Mmm,” he pressed two knuckles against his lips, “I was thinking maybe you’d like to go out for a drink. Get your mind off things.”

“Maybe,” Hawke set aside his napkin, warily eyed the remaining beans on his plate that he didn’t want to eat but felt bad about leaving, “I mean, yeah, it would be fun, but I’d worry about you honestly. No one wants to be alone with me when I’m drunk and sad - especially not in a public place.”

“You’re not that bad.” Fenris snorted, “And if you’re really that concerned about my _contentment_ then we can invite Isabela along again.”

“Likely she’d run off again.” Hawke replied, taking the chewed end of his straw and stirring the remainder of his water. He ignored that sour little part of his brain that was whispering reminders that Fenris was bisexual and Isabela was a _very_ pretty lady. “She gets excited at parties. Like you said – antelope on meth.”

“She does seem something of a social butterfly.” Fenris admitted against the palm of his hand, reaching below the table. He wrestled his wallet out of his pocket and began poking around for money.

“No,” Hawke said, and reached out. He felt that electric wave again, when his fingers rested just so against the back of Fenris’ hand, “I’ll pay.” he smiled softly.

“If you must.”

 

“Hawkey, if you’re offering me the opportunity to wingman you whilst heavily drinking,” Isabela’s lilting voice streamed out of Hawke’s phone at a volume far too loud for him to be holding so close to his ear. He was stood patiently outside Fenris’ apartment building, a cigarette clutched between his fingers, and he was sure everyone within a mile radius could hear Isabela’s screeches. He listened to her ramble, watching the couple on the other side of the street who were sitting on a bench and bickering softly to each other. “Then the answer is absolutely yes because wingmanning and heavy drinking are two of my favourite activities.”

The sound of gulping hit Hawke’s ears and he grimaced,

“Are you sure you’re not heavily drinking now?”

“That was apple juice,” she said, “In a shot glass, admittedly, but it was only apple juice.”

“I’m comforted by the image of you taking juice shots.” Hawke replied monotonously, raising his cigarette to his mouth. He let his lips rest against it.

“I find my consumption of various liquids can be considered very comforting, yes.” Isabela said in her _haha sex joke_ voice. “Anyway…what about you?”

“What about me taking juice shots or what about me in general?”

“What about you and _Fenris_.” she whined, “Tell me you’ve at least kissed him.”

“He gave me a side hug.” Hawke sighed dramatically, lifting the back of his palm to his forehead for added effect. He decided it wasn’t worth it when he accidentally burnt his forehead with his cigarette – and Isabela wasn’t there anyway, so she couldn’t appreciate his theatrics. “On the floor. I was on the floor, I mean. And he hugged me because I was crying.”

“So,” the line crackled. This part of town had awful reception. “An average Saturday night for you at home?”

“Yes.”

“…was it good?”

“It was the best hug I have ever received.”

 

Hawke noticed, whilst awkwardly perusing a shiny black bookshelf in Fenris’ living room, that Fenris has a habit of letting his glasses slide almost all the way off his nose before he notices and pushes them back up. He watched for maybe five minutes, inexplicably finding he could watch Fenris reaching and retracting his hands for hours without getting bored. The book he splayed his fingers over felt shiny and hard beneath his palm, and he pulled it out by chance when he realised he’d been staring for too long. An old, ratty book about British garden flowers, dog-eared pages and peels of paper curling out of place. Hawke stared at it momentarily, before pushing it back into its place and sighing.

“Are you alright?” Fenris asked, not looking away from the hefty sketchbook balanced on his lap. He worked with large ink pens, adventurously diving straight in with geometric lines and spiky shapes that reminded Hawke of the angular planes of his face. Hawke understood why he became a tattoo artist when he watched an inhumanly steady hand strike a perfectly straight line from the top to the bottom of the page.

“Ah, yeah,” Hawke tapped his knuckles against the bookshelf, “Just a little impatient. Isabela was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

“Traffic?” he suggested, capping one of his pens.

“It’s Sunday evening, Fenris.”

“Good point.” he smirked, pushing his sketchbook aside. “However it is a miracle that we managed to find the only place in this entire city that’s open on a Sunday night. It looks seedy but I need a good drink.”

“Isabela’s life motto.” Hawke muttered, glancing at Barkimedes who had fallen asleep underneath the coffee table with the corner of a rug tucked between his lips.

“I’ll tell her you said that.”

 

Isabela arrived another ten minutes later, a needlessly shiny handbag tucked underneath her arm and her hair folded into a bandana. Hawke patted her soft curls as he passed, and she pursed her lips. Fenris looked at them like they were children.

“A kid on the bus tried to touch my arse on the way up here,” Isabela said as they began the walk downtown, everyone with a cigarette between their lips. “But the old lady sitting behind us noticed and called him a dirty wretch.”

“What a nice old lady.” Hawke replied, rubbing his fingers against the end of his cigarette. The spark sputtered sluggishly out of his fingers, and he stared at his palm accusingly, “That was weird.”

“What was weird?” Fenris said, looking away from his phone. Hawke took a drag from his cigarette.

“Magic was…weird.” he followed the lines of his bones on the back of his hand and scowled, “It came out really slow it was like…I could really feel it. Like, under my skin. It felt solid.”

“Ask Anders.” Isabela cooed, taking Hawke’s hands into her own like the mum-friend she pretended she wasn’t. Hawke felt his breath wavering as she tottered backwards on six inch heels – she was going to fall into a puddle. “He knows that stuff.”

“Only because he’s self-appointed himself as president of the mage club.” Hawke snorted, pulling his hands away so he could grab Isabela’s shoulders and spin her the right way round, “That is a thing he actually said. He said Merrill could be the advisor and I’d be the entire cabinet.” he smiled fondly, “He’d had a lot of champagne.”

“Wasn’t that at Aveline’s Christmas party?” Isabela started chuckling loudly, “When he drunk kissed you and you screamed because you were really confused.”

“…Yes.” this was not the sort of information Hawke wanted revealed to Fenris.

“I thought so.”

“I dread to think of what the rest of your friends are like.” Fenris sighed, tapping furiously at his phone screen. Hawke craned his head to creep on his messages, but the sun was setting and the few streetlights that were blinking into life glared off of the screen.

“We’re a god damn delight.” Isabela pouted, “I’m the fun one, Hawke’s the sad one, Anders is the pissy one, Merrill’s a tiny angel, and Aveline and Varric are our parents.”

“This is a very accurate description.” Hawke nodded solemnly. Isabela stuck her tongue out at him.

 

When they reached the bar, its dim lights glowing eerily through the darkened windows, Hawke realised he would definitely be placing a lot of orders that night.

It was surprisingly busy for a Sunday evening, with people bustling back and forth from the bar. Only a few studio lights hung from the ceiling, their glow soft and hazy. The floor shone suspiciously in the faint light, sticky beneath Hawke’s shoes. A sombre sounding band droned away towards the back of the bar, the lead singer sounding like he was trying to make out with the microphone. The audience watched with their lips caught over the edge of their drinks. Two men in studded leather sat at the bar, one with his huge fists clutched around a pint of beer and the other carefully nursing a glass of Pinot. Hawke spotted a red faced couple kissing in a boxy booth near the back, and quickly snapped his eyes away from their table.

“One of my co-workers comes here with her girlfriend all the time,” Fenris shrugged off his jacket and hooked it over his arm, gazing up at the flickering neon menus hanging above the bar. He grimaced and muttered something about them not having Merlot. “She’s always telling me about how great it is but at the same time she’s obsessed with toilet humour so I’m not sure how far I trust her.”

“I quite like it.” Isabela had caught sight of the couple making out in their booth. Hawke scrunched up his face and called one of the bartenders to order.

Hawke toted a glass of stout and Fenris’ begrudged Yellow Tail to a table a little further away from the band audience. Isabela had a huge cocktail glass filled with something clear – therefore Hawke did not trust it and continued sipping happily on his own drink.

“Drinking on a Sunday night,” Hawke puffed when he felt their table had grown too silent, “What blasphemy.”

“Sebastian would be ashamed.” Isabela pouted.

“Probably not, I mean he made out with me in a confession booth, he can’t be _that_ devout.” Hawke took another gulp of his drink, furrowing his brow when he realised that was the second time he’d talked about kissing other men tonight. These were not things he should be saying in front of Fenris.

“I’m learning a lot about your questionable decisions this weekend.” Fenris leant back into his chair, wine glass hanging from his hand at an angle that made Hawke’s stomach lurch. “It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

Hawke nodded maybe too seriously and Isabela elbowed him numbly in the ribs.

“Ow – dude.”

“Stop being such a Debbie downer.” Isabela hissed, pressing her glass to her lips. She looked shadowy in the darkened bar, and Hawke took a moment to observe the dark curves of her cheeks before glancing over at Fenris. His hair stood out starkly and a little light reflected in narrow rectangles against his glasses. Hawke couldn’t help but wonder if it was his imagination telling him that Fenris’ tattoos looked like they were glowing. “Talk about something fun.”

“I turn everything fun into tragedy.” Hawke deadpanned. Fenris snorted and his heart did a little jump.

“The Midas of fun.” Fenris said.

“Everything you touch turns to tears.” Isabela sighed, hanging her head over the back of her chair. “…Who’s this band anyway? They sound like they’re trapped in an air vent.” she twisted in her seat, squinting at the stage. It was the only properly lit part of the bar – a black stage drenched in a washed out spotlight. The curtains behind looked heavy and dark and Hawke was willing to bet the band were sweating like all hell.

“The drummer looks like he’s going to fall asleep.” Fenris points at a guy with curly hair tied back in a ponytail, sitting back with his head lowered. He hit the bass drum every seven seconds and that was about it. His head was swinging like he wanted to throw up.

“Wow,” Isabela pawed the table blindly for her drink, “This place sure is the life of the party, huh.”

“I’m going to see if they have peanuts.” Hawke said, standing abruptly. He tried to push his chair in but it grated obnoxiously against the floor so he just left it.

There were two people behind the bar: a blonde woman with sleeve tattoos that Hawke had ordered from and a jittery man who had been wiping clean the same glass since they had arrived. When Hawke awkwardly balanced himself on a barstool, he continued to do so.

“Ahem.” Hawke pressed his fist to his lips, and the barman looked up frantically, setting aside the glass.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he said, kneading his fingers against the bar.

“I was wondering if you had any – “

“Wait a second.” the bartender held his hands up and Hawke closed his mouth in a manner that he was sure made him look like a fish. The bartender’s eyes flicked rigidly over him, and Hawke suddenly felt very scrutinised. The bartender took a small piece of white card out of his waistcoat pocket and pushed it across the sticky bar. “This doesn’t happen to be you – does it?”

“…You’re supposed to burn this.” Hawke said darkly, snatching up the softened business card with his and Varric’s surnames printed so clearly across it. “Any paper trails that suggest you purchased anything from us have to be destroyed.”

“I – I didn’t know. I’ve been to plenty of dealers before, they all – “ Hawke cut him short with a measured glare.

“We’re risking a lot more than most dealers are.” he said.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” the man gushed, “It’s not mine, you see. My friend gave it to me. Said ‘look for the big bearded guy downtown’.” he fiddled with the top button of his waistcoat, “I wasn’t brave enough to call the number.”

Sighing, Hawke clenched his fist around the card. “Whatever.” he lowered his voice, “Did you want to place an order?” that felt very ironic, seeing as he was the one sitting on a barstool on a search for peanuts.

“Mmm,” the man nodded, “For the boys.” he gestured to the band. “Good friends of mine – I said I’d hook them up with something. It’s just that a lot of dealers have been busted recently.”

Hawke scratched at his beard, thinking of the woman who lived a few flats above Merrill, how just last month her meth kitchen was busted and she was given ten years in prison. Merrill had relayed it all to him in stunning detail – how she’d gone without struggle, just let the police handcuff her and push her through the halls. He hadn’t slept well that night.

“Did your friend give you a stock list as well?” Hawke asked, “Or just the card.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t mind what you give me. Just something that will get ‘em going.”

“Isabela?” Hawke looked over his shoulder to their table, “Do you have a pen in your bag – oh, jeez! Thanks…” he barely managed to catch the biro she’d lobbed at him before it hit him in the eye.

Breathing heavily, the bartender watched as Hawke began scribbling numbers and names down on the back of the business card.

“Lido’s the best for beginners,” he said quietly, glancing towards the men sat at the bar to ensure they weren’t listening. They were locked in conversation about spare parts and overpriced scrap metal. Hawke furrowed his brow. “A box of that’s fifty. A box can cover at least four people pretty well – up to seven if you stretch the supplies thin. Less than that and the high won’t last any longer than fifteen minutes or so.” he chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pen, “But then again, Lido’s for beginners because it’s weaker than the rest. You said you want something to get them going?”

The bartender nodded.

“Poteen gives you a better buzz because it’s partly alcohol, but that’s probably not appropriate for first timers.” Hawke thought carefully, “I’ll hook you up with Paschal – it’s all natural ingredients and the effects are long lasting. They’ll get a huge kick for about half an hour, and then it will start slowing down until it becomes…lulling, I guess.”

Hawke scratched out his and Varric’s name and other details on the card before writing down in pointy letters _1 box of Paschal. £60_. He’d copy it into his phone later.

“Keep that.” Hawke handed it to him, “In case it’s Varric who you meet up with instead of me. He’ll need proof.”

“Right…thank you, sir. And I, uh, I burn it after that?”

“Yep. It will be ready in about a week. Turn up anytime you like.”

“Alright.”

“…Now do you have any peanuts.”

 

“So he just straight up asked to buy drugs from you in the middle of the bar?” Isabela chortled, scooping peanuts into her mouth. She watched the skittish bartender from over Fenris’ shoulder. He’d returned to polishing that same glass.

“Mhm.” Hawke said, his mouth full. “He hadn’t even burned the card either he just slapped it down…started speaking with those two guys right next to us.”

“I assume this sort of thing happens a lot, though?” Fenris had finished his wine, and he was running his fingers across the rim of the glass. “When people who didn’t meet you directly get information through friends, I mean. There must be a lot of confusion.”

“Yeah...” Hawke sighed, running a hand down his face. He hadn’t licked his fingers clean yet and he trailed salt through his beard. “Sometimes we just have to pretend we don’t know what they’re talking about because first timers can get a little bit too excited when they think they’ve finally found a reliable dealer.”

“I would be too though,” Isabela said solemnly, poking Hawke with her foot beneath the table, “There were a group that had started getting pretty well known around this area who were supposed to be selling weed and coke to first timers. Turned out it was oregano and crushed mints. They’d been charging extortionate amounts for things you could find in your granny’s kitchen cupboards.”

“Who keeps mints in a cupboard?”

“Shut up, Fenris.”

 

When it got late enough that almost half the audience had begun trickling out of the bar, and even Fenris’ lips were twitching with tell-tale inebriation, Hawke decided that it was time they went home.

Isabela had been – quote – _absolutely god damn sure I can walk by myself Hawkey, I’m not a toddler_ , and had consequently tottered down the pavement in high heels for about fifteen second before she leant on a lamp post for support. She kicked of her heels and stuffed them in her bag, walking quite contently across the wet pavement barefoot.

“Are you alright?” Fenris said softly, the faint glow of a cigarette the only indication that he was walking beside Hawke. It was dark and the moon hid behind the clouds.

“I’m fine.” Hawke replied, clasping his palms together. The night air was cold, so he blew into the cavern he’d made with his hands. His breath just escaped as steam through the cracks of his fingers, “I had fun tonight. Even if that guy behind the bar stressed me out a bit.”

They passed a group of men who were smoking outside an apartment complex. Seemingly huddled for warmth, the men watched like denim clad owls as Hawke and Fenris passed. Hawke was glad Isabela walked quieter than a cat at night, or they’d have noticed her as she walked up ahead and probably would have had a lot to say judging by the booze slackness of their mouths.

“Good.” Fenris said in a tone that sounded pleased. It made Hawke’s insides tangle together and his fingers twitch. An uncomfortable pulsing of emotion solidified in his palm, like a blood clot of energy. He felt the painful itch of unreleased magic biting at his skin and shook his hand violently. It happened a lot, and usually he just had to wait for his veins to suck it back up.

Except this time it did not go back.

This time he blew a bolt of light out against a street lamp.

Everything happened at once, and he wasn’t entirely sure whose voice was who. He yelped when his hand started burning and the smell of metal attacked his nostrils. A weight at his side had felt comforting for a second, before it was ripped away and his head started hurting. He heard lots of voices – only two he recognised – but he couldn’t pick out any words as the street light above him flickered and buzzed and eventually burnt out.

The only word he heard before his head hit the pavement was a hoarse screech of,

“ _Mage!_ ”

And then everything was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gasp, what drama


	15. Chapter 15

Hawke only could have been out for a minute before his eyes fluttered open and the phosphenes behind his lids melted into the real world.

Groaning, he rolled onto his side, something warm and wet on his temple. His eyes adjusted to the late spring darkness, and the street lights that still worked illuminated the somehow soft shape of Isabela with her knee in someone’s balls.

The scuffle behind him was impossibly audible too, and frigid worry struck through his chest as he realised Fenris was dealing with maybe three of the men who’d –

Oh.

So that’s how that happened.

Hawke recalled an unforgiving fist to the back of his head, a heel in the small of his back once his face was made familiar with the gravel. He’d caught a glimpse of his offender’s ugly face before he’d slipped out, but that couldn’t have been more than forty seconds ago.

With great effort, Hawke hauled himself upward, keeling into his legs as his head began to fall back and forth. Somewhere to his left – or, or what, he couldn’t really tell – Fenris had one of the men in a headlock, and the other two on the floor. One had a black eye, and was pressing his palm distraughtly to the bloom of blood that shone against his nose and lips. The other was attempting to stand, grabbing hold of his swollen wrist, staggering away with a pathetic mutter of a mantra wheeling off his tongue.

Hawke felt something lurch in his stomach, and he wasn’t sure if it was fear or the fact that this was _really_ hot.

Maybe a bit of both.

The man Fenris had in a hold was huge – maybe only a few centimetres shorter than Hawke – but even as he swung his torso and grappled with Fenris’ arms there was no escaping. That was until Fenris let go. For a second Hawke’s heart started hammering and he wondered what the _hell_ he was doing, but then his fists were raised and the bald headed brute’s face was thoroughly planted against the wall.

Isabela whistled loudly, the noise increasing slowly until Hawke thought maybe his head was about to explode. Only when he felt Isabela’s hands on his shoulders, watching the assailant scramble away with a hand to his probably broken nose, did he realise that he probably wasn’t going to die.

“That was impressive.” she wrapped her arms around Hawke’s chest, pulling him upright against her. Hawke moaned and rested his head into the crook of her neck – she smelt like sweat and expensive perfume.

Fenris shook bright blood from his fist with a look of disgust. His brows furrowed.

“…Not to worry anyone but we’re a very recognisable group.” he glanced at Hawke, who tried to give him a smile back but probably just gave him a clumsy, bruised grin.

“First of all, we have a friend in the police,” Isabela drawled on what was probably an adrenaline high from taking out two men heads bigger than her, “But she doesn’t always back us up. Fortunately, my second of all is I have a friend who can take care of it.”

“You sound like Varric.” Hawke’s voice was barely a rasp, but Isabela giggled fondly.

“You know Zevran…” she looked up reassuringly to Fenris, “He’ll either _encourage_ our little friends not to go tattling _or_ he’ll make sure any serious accusations are conveniently…forgotten about.”

_Or he’ll sleep with them._

“But even…even if they don’t care about you beating them up they still saw me use magic on the street. That’s – ugh – that’s illegal.” Hawke pressed his hand to the wall, stickiness on his temple. He drew his hand away to see dark, shiny blood varnishing his palm.

“They hit you first, Hawke,” Fenris nodded, “Our actions were self-defence. And they probably know that. As long as they know they can be charged for lashing out first they won’t be reporting anything.”

“And in this part of town,” Isabela looked up to the windows above, all curtains drawn or blinds tightly pulled, “No one cares about fights.”

Hawke whimpered softly as his busted ankle pressed into the pavement,

“Oh, darling.” Isabela brushed her thumb softly over Hawke’s cheek, “Let’s get you somewhere warm. There’s a convenience store down the road – I’ll grab you some pain killers and junk.”

 

“When I was a kid I used to have really bad acne.”

A track of thin blood trickled down Hawke’s cheek, the drying wound under his fingers beginning to itch and ache. His head hurt like hell.

“…Hmm?” Fenris said. He leant against the door that just minutes ago Isabela had dragged him through, pushing him roughly into the chairs of an apartment lobby he’d never seen in his life. Hawke hoped no one would come downstairs from their room and find a slightly drunk, scraped up man slouching in a chair next to his angry friend he was chewing on his cigarette and nursing the bruising knuckles of a hand he’d used to punch a skin head into a wall. He also hoped that on the way there no one had seen the six foot three bear of a man being limped into a conveniently unlocked building with a significantly smaller and slightly less beat up friend on either side.

Not that people living in this area would exactly be strangers to this sort of occurrence. The fact that this place was unlocked said enough.

“Yeah…I used to look like the surface of the moon. Or, wait, no Mars. My face looked like Mars.” Hawke’s free hand crept hesitantly to the flaky acne scars in his hairline, “Because I was very lumpy and very red.”

“Is there a reason you’re telling me this information?” Fenris smirked, resting his forehead against the glass windows until his breath began fogging them up, “Or has that bump left you a little out of it?”

“I just remembered.” Hawke sighed, “I remembered feeling…like my entire face was a mistake. I used to have dreams about peeling my skin off.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows, “That’s…something.”

“I mean…I was thirteen, a mage, gay, and trying to get over my dad’s death.” he laughed bitterly. “I suppose my issues were conspiring against – oh, ow…”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah…it just…it aches.” Hawke hissed, “How much longer is Isabela going to be?”

“Mmm, the convenience store is just down the road. It’ll take her fifteen minutes at the most to walk back.”

Feeling like he was a sickening combination of drunk and high, Hawke had nodded and muttered to everything Isabela said as she pressed herself protectively against his side. He sighed, an ache in his stomach feeling choleric and acidic. Watching Fenris, he only realised once he felt like keening sadly to himself that Fenris was looking back, removing his somewhat scuffed glasses and rubbing the lenses between forefinger and thumb. There was a placid silence between them, one that would have been stiff and dusky had Hawke been half as conscious as he was.

“…something’s up.” Fenris padded away from the door, kneeling in front of Hawke’s chair. Hawke was so slumped that they were almost at eyelevel. “What’s wrong?”

Hawke felt his chest spasm quietly beneath his jacket. He felt like maybe he’d be sick.

“…I think I just need some water.”

 

Hawke could well have mistaken Isabela for God when she returned, clasping a water bottle in worrying fingers, a pack of plasters and painkillers beneath her palm. Her eyes were watery and her bottom lip red. Hawke could see where she’d started bleeding from chewing.

“He’s been okay?” she snapped open the pack of painkillers and popped two out of the plastic. Fenris nodded, gently taking the water bottle from her.

Hawke took the painkillers in a laboured swallow. He felt the tablets catch roughly in his throat and took another mouthful. Medication had never gone down well with him.

The idea of swallowing something that was actively going to react and have an effect inside of him made Hawke want to rip his hair out. Last Christmas, when Hawke had had a breakdown in Merrill’s kitchen and come very close to drinking himself out cold, Aveline and Anders had reluctantly joined forces to console him.

“We just think that it may be better for you if you saw a doctor about this.” Anders had run his fingers awkwardly over the seams of his inappropriately bright Christmas jumper and Hawke remembered watching the patterns he was tracing in a painful effort to distract himself from the pounding in his head.

“Medication saves thousands of people, Hawke. It would be idiotic not to just – “ Hawke could never quite remember what it was he did to cut Aveline off so abruptly, but he was told it involved yelling something he’d regretted so vehemently and immediately that he’d almost drowned himself in liquor after saying it.

He coughed.

“Thank you, Isabela.”

“Oh,” she smiled softly, sadly, “It’s no problem, kitten.”

She pressed her hand to Fenris’ chest and muttered against his head. Hawke couldn’t hear what they were saying, ducked against each other, but he heard Fenris’ _mmm_ ing in agreement.

“ – _him home safe, okay_?”

“ _Of course._ ”

 

There were a lot of things that made Hawke feel like a child again, being piggy-backed was one of those things. Being piggy-backed whilst slightly buzzed, beat up, and through a light pollution thick city of druggies and drunkards was not, however, something he was familiar with.

When Fenris had hauled Hawke onto his back with fluid ease Hawke had tried to stop himself from swooning, _you’re so strong_ into his hair. Instead he thought it and felt his face grow hot at all of the imaginary scenarios he was coming up with in his head – most of which included spontaneous kissing in the middle of the pavement, preferably with Fenris still holding Hawke up. Against a wall maybe.

He forced himself to stop when he remembered that his front was pressed against Fenris’ back and if his thoughts went any further he’d create an awkward situation for the both of them.

He humoured himself with wrapping his arms around Fenris’ front and trying to figure out where all this muscle was. _You’re not allowed to be ripped when you’re already so attractive to me._

“You’re quiet,” Fenris swallowed, and Hawke could actually _hear_ that with the way his face was pressed against his neck. “…and nuzzly.”

“This is kind of maybe making me feel like a kid again.” he wheezed a laugh into the soft hair at the nape of Fenris’ neck. “Except my dad was a good foot or so taller than you.”

Fenris laughed, pausing to adjust his hold around Hawke’s legs.

“It must have been nice to have a good father figure,” Fenris mused, a sadness in his voice that made Hawke press closer against his back. “Sorry. That was unnecessary. Are you doing okay?”

“I think the painkillers helped.”

“…Good.” Fenris said, “Would you like me to take you back to your apartment?”

Hawke’s throat ached.

“Could I…just go back with you?”

“Alright, Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is offensively short considering how long it's been since i last updated but i've been working on original stories as well as gamebooks PLUS i've been sucked into overwatch hell and as result of such i've been working on a mchanzo fic so yEAH a lot's happened im sorry kids


	16. Chapter 16

At half past two in the morning Hawke was stood flat footed and bleary eyed in the middle of Fenris’ kitchen. He didn’t remember the lights ever being this bright before, but then – head tilted back and mouth hanging open like a starved dog – it was like being blinded with gaudy fluorescents.

“I’ll make you some tea.” Fenris said, shoulders deep in a cupboard as he rummaged through empty packets and Tupperware boxes. “It helps with sobering up…then take a cold shower before going to bed. You can have my room again – I don’t mind.”

Hawke remained slack mouthed as Fenris slapped a packet of teabags onto the sideboard, swiping at the kettle and watching the bubbles rise. Bubbles. _God_ , Hawke’s stomach felt like it was swollen.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Fenris looked up, eyes tired, wide – concerned.

Desperation clawed at Hawke’s throat wildly and, combined with the bubbling of the cholic in his stomach, he felt like maybe he was going to vomit all over the kitchen floor. He thought of Fenris diligently wiping spilt ramen and shattered china from the linoleum, and something settled within him.

But not enough to supress the sack of pressure that was building up in his chest.

“Alright,” he swallowed thickly, “This is going to sound weird.”

Fenris perched himself haughtily on the sideboard, eyes still fixated on the kettle. He had a soft edged smirk on his ( _perfect_ ) lips and that only made the words tumbling from Hawke’s think space weirder.

“When I think about you it’s like some has pulled my insides out of me and fashioned them into ugly scarves,” he breathed hard, trying not to think about how _wrong_ that analogy was. “Like, I’m excited for the productivity and success of their psycho business but my stomach feels weird, that’s what you make me feel like.”

Wide eyes and a twisted mouth, a sinking feeling in Hawke’s stomach. He took a moment to think about every god awful mistake he’d ever made in his life, and decided that they would never compare to this.

“I don’t know how to reply to that.” Fenris said quietly.

“Basically you could rip out my intestines and I would thank you.” Hawke heaved a huge sigh and collapsed into a rickety kitchen chair. He could feel the tape that covered a tapering crack in the seat and a sad little part of him died. “I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been… _weird_ and messed up and…I’m sorry. You probably want nothing to do with me.”

“…Hawke.” Fenris’ voice was calm against the violent crashing inside Hawke’s skull, and as he slipped from his seat on the sideboard and padded towards him Hawke refused to meet his gaze. He heard the kettle over boiling, but neither of them made any effort to see to it. “I have no idea why you would think that. You’re a good man. I enjoy your company.”

“But that’s it, isn’t it?” _oh God, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry –_ “My…my god damn _company_.”

The sigh that escaped Fenris’ nose in a wheezing puff made Hawke’s shoulders tense up. He’d been fearing this moment since the day he set foot in a grimy old tattoo parlour with Isabela and her golden laugh and a gorgeous stranger and his stupid bloody _hypnotic_ eyes.

He was braced for the impact that would take out his heart, take out the apartment and every human, dog and mote of insignificant dust within. Crashing hardest, burning brightest – it all came back to that at the end of the day.

“Did you think I didn’t know?” Fenris said softly.

Hawke’s brain imploded.

“ _My God_ , Hawke, I’ve known since the deal.” Fenris pulled another chair roughly from beneath the table, sitting himself firmly before Hawke – who still refused to raise his gaze from his lap. “Look me in the eye for Christ’s sake."

Teary eyed, Hawke rested his chin in his palms and met Fenris’ balmy glare. The heat between them was static, like a charged snare.

“Now - answer my question.”

“I…didn’t know you knew.”

Fenris smiled, eventually, the muscles in his face relaxing. “And that’s okay.” a gentle hand reached towards Hawke, cupping his cheek tenderly. Hawke closed his eyes, letting Fenris’ draw him closer until his head was rested against his chest. “…We’ve been dancing around each other, really, haven’t we?”

“Have we?” Hawke croaked, looking up at Fenris through the veil of wavy black hair falling over his eyes. A laugh like silver seeped through Fenris’ tightly sealed lips, and something profound in Hawke’s gut had him moving forward as soon as he saw the shift in the angle of Fenris’ shoulders.

“Oh...Hawke.” Fenris said, and met Hawke’s lips with his own.

Kissing Fenris was an ugly affair, tasting like cheap Yellow Tail and stout and blood and gravel. Their teeth clacked together like heels on concrete and it felt like summer between their tongues. But it held a sweetness, a putrid one if nothing else. The velvety feel of a rotten peach – all sugar and fuzzy skin and the exhilarating fear of an upset stomach. That was what kissing Fenris felt like.

“What did you say about a cold shower?” Hawke spat.

“ _Bastard_.” Fenris breathed into his mouth.

 

“This is,” tiny translucent pearls of shower water fell from Hawke’s hair. He patted himself down with a towel beside the teetering shelving alcove in Fenris’ bedroom. “ _bloody transcendent_.” he finished, fully considering wrapping the wet towel around his head out of pure euphoria.

“How so?” Fenris flashed a stunning smile across the room, his bare shoulder blades exposed and glistening with water and the bare remains of opalescent bubbles scintillating on his brown skin. His bedroom lights were dimmed and the light over his back was golden. His tattoos, white brogue and map contours on a sturdy plane of muscle, seemed to change colour in the lowlight.

“I have had dreams about being wet and naked in your bedroom.” Hawke laughed, pushing meaningfully towards the bed and diving for the grey duvet. He gathered it beneath his arms and draped it over Fenris’ shoulders, chest to back like they had been in the shower. Except now Hawke felt like maybe he could breathe easy. Maybe. “And funnily enough it was in this context.”

“Really?” the perfect arch of a raised eyebrow pressed against Hawke’s cheek as Fenris turned in his arms, pressing himself unabashedly skin to skin. It was warm and wholesome and nobody had made Hawke feel like this in years. In his entire bloody _life_.

“Yeah, I, uh.” an insistent press of wandering fingers against his thigh sky rocketed Hawke’s awareness, and he was careful not to claw when he made a grab for Fenris’ hand. “I’m not…I’m not good for that."

The duvet collapsed around them as Hawke took Fenris’ shoulders and pulled him towards the mattress. They lay atop one another, legs tangled, and maintained eye contact until Hawke’s chest stopped heaving like a wild animal.

“It’s stupid, I know.” Hawke’s shaky voice seemed to match the vague shimmer in Fenris’ eye. A thin meniscus of light and the fragile vibrations from between Hawke’s lips – _how poetic, Garrett,_ he thinks. “Because we just showered together and I’m pretty sure I gave you like eight hickeys and also our dicks are touching right now but like – “ he choked on his rushed words, Fenris giggled above him.

“Sorry, I – “

“No, keep going.”

“…Literally everyone I’ve ever dated has never satisfied me.” admittance felt like a death sentence, and Hawke waited for a judging stare that never came. “But it’s like, I hang out with Isabela enough to know that sex is fun. Of course it is. But I, like, lowkey get more excited holding hands than I do at the idea of taking off my clothes. Actually no – I like being naked. That wasn’t a good comparison.”

“Hawke… _Garrett_ ,” Fenris said Hawke’s first name like he was testing it out on his tongue, and when a pleasant click and softened gaze followed he thought a satisfied _he likes it_ , “No one is stopping you from feeling a certain way.”

“But that makes it sound so bad!” Hawke wailed, pulling Fenris close to his chest. “It’s not that I don’t want to ever…I’m just too vulnerable now.”

“I know you are, Hawke.”

“And I just want to sleep.”

“I know.”

“I’m…I’m so tired.”

“…I know.”

 

Morning came, and the sun was watery and the sky was grey, but Hawke woke to a warm bed that smelt like cigarette smoke and sandalwood and lime, and a headful of white hair nuzzled beneath his chin.

Hawke hadn’t had the luxury of morning kisses in a long time, and effortlessly sliding his lips across Fenris’ as the sun filtered through the windows was incredible.

They didn’t eat breakfast, but leant against each other beside the sideboard frowning at the over boiled kettle Fenris had left the night before. Brewing coffee instead, they stood pressed against each other until the smell of good roast filled the room and Barkimedes came tapping onto the linoleum.

“What do you think happened – last night, I mean?” never speaking one inch away from each other’s lips, Fenris smelt overwhelmingly of coffee and stale ash and Hawke inhaled it like an addict. _Subtle reminder_ , he thought to himself.

“I don’t know.” Hawke sighed, “It…hurt. Kind of. It felt like my magic was building up until it solidified and then just exploded all at once. Isabela said I should talk to Anders…she’s right.”

“Where does he live?” Fenris said, his fingers playing with the downy hair at the base of Hawke’s neck. ( _“It’s so glossy.” he’d laughed the night before, nose deep in slowly drying curls as he wrapped his pointy elbows around Hawke’s freckley shoulders…_ ).

“Uh, couple streets down. Twenty minute bus ride at the most.” Hawke nodded into Fenris’ temple, moulding a reddening hand to the graceful curve of his hip.

“You should go.” Fenris drew back sadly, his hands pressed to Hawke’s collar as if he was sure letting go would mean sending him on his way for good. He curled his hand behind the shell of his ear. “I don’t want this getting any worse.”

Hawke nodded, and leant in for another kiss as the rain outside began to swell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end is coming, folks.


	17. Chapter 17

_When Hawke was twelve, greasy, pimply and a ball of fury and childhood rebellion, he was approached one day by a shrew faced librarian. He was sat alone, ankles crossed as he leant from the edge of a bench, peering into the bottom of his crisp packet. She’d tapped her cracked nails and stared Hawke down through her Coke bottle glasses as if he’d done something wrong – truth be told, during his school days it always felt like he’d done something wrong. Before he could register what had happened he was being guided to the school councillor’s office._

_“I don’t know why I’m here.” Hawke muttered ruefully into the scuffed and popped collar of his school shirt, speaking with scorn like he was trying to stick it to authority, when really he was scared and confused and honestly didn’t know why he was there._

_“You’re not in trouble, Garrett. No, no, I wanted to talk to you because,” the councillor had shuffled his papers manner of factly, adjusted his tie and then leant in, whispering low, “I needed to know if there was anything…anything that was happening at home?”_

_When other kids were asked if anything is happening at home it’s because they arrived at school teary eyed or with bruised legs. A girl in Hawke’s maths class had been asked if she was having problems with her parents and next week her dad was in prison and his face all over the paper. It was about children with unreliable parents and tiny crowded homes and sharing bedrooms with too many siblings._

_The point was, just a few days before Malcolm Hawke had been spotted crouching in his back garden and coaxing the tomato vines to grow higher up their bamboo poles. The point was, word spreads quickly in small towns and no one had dared come near Hawke after they found out he might be one of ‘those type’. The point was, none of it would ever have happened had it not been for a nosy neighbour who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves and was leaning full bodied over the top of a brick wall to catch a glimpse of a suspected mage in his safe space._

_“We don’t blame you.” his mother had said softly when Hawke was suspended for yelling at the councillor, throwing his chair across the room and walking out of the school. He’d spent his entire week buried beneath his duvet and trying to cry himself into the mattress._

_The point was: he’d never had a chance._

 

“I’ve been stressed since day one, let’s say.” Hawke mumbled into Ander’s shag carpet, where he lay face down and eagle spread. Anders’ apartment smelt like hand cream and cat food. “Kid me, however, was significantly more likely to throw a fit than cry. I think the crying started in, like, college? I don’t know.”

“I’m not a therapist, Garrett.” Anders laughed, and the open plan kitchen/living room _thing_ made his voice sound like it was everywhere. Hawke would describe it as an echo, but Anders’ living space was far too cluttered to ever produce one. He seemingly coexisted with the dust that collected over his belongings, piled high on shelves and coffee tables and window sills. “But,” Hawke rolled onto his back and watched Anders, haphazardly balancing a tea cup in his hand, pull a black hard back from a shelf full of colour coded books. “I have this.”

“What is it?” he craned his neck painfully to watch Anders collapse onto the ugly Chesterfield, kicking his legs onto the coffee table that Hawke lay parallel to.

“ _The Modern Mage_ ,” Anders grinned, holding the book high in their air like he sometimes held his cat whilst belting out the Circle of Life. “It was written in the mid-eighties by this mage bloke named,” he squinted at the cover, “I don’t know, it’s Russian, I’m not trying to pronounce that. Anyway – it was taken out of print about five years after publishing because it was deemed _inappropriate_. Basically, it’s censorship. I managed to nab this copy from an antique store a couple of years ago and I read it in two days. I recommend it.”

“I barely registered those couple sentences properly, if you expect me to read that you can throw me out a window.” Hawke groaned and pulled himself upright, he rested against the sofa with a slouch, “How’s it gonna help?”

“It’s sort of a self-help guide,” Anders flicked absent mindedly through the pages, “It goes through the common issues that mages are likely to experience and how they can deal with them. The first half is physical, like, problems that magic can cause to the user, and the second half is social. Prejudice, all that.”

Physical. That never came up much. When mages were mentioned on the news it was always heated arguments about legalisation and social expectations, tosh that made Hawke’s head hurt and made Anders red in the face and Merrill flighty. But that was for the adults, that was how the grownups reminded themselves: show them who you really are and end up behind bars. For the little boys and girls with electricity rippling in their fingers it was all horror stories of what magic does to your body. Hawke remembered a story his father had told him one winter, whilst they shovelled the driveway together.

“There was a Danish mage,” he’d said, leaning on his shovel and pointing out the spots they’d missed, “she was a skilled healer. Incredible woman. But so many people came to her for her magic that it started changing her body. Because of course – you know this, Garrett, I’ve told you before – when you use healing magic it fixes up your body too. And what happened was, well, really it started polishing her. Or that’s what it looked like. You know what I’m trying to say? It’s like all her wrinkles and veins and little imperfections were being sanded off. And then her nails fell off. And then she had completely smooth, white hands. Like she’d dipped them in paint. You understand what I mean?”

That was the winter Hawke stopped healing his scabby knees and relied on plasters instead.

“Why ban it?” Hawke muttered, focusing on the wrinkles in his hands, “if it’s a self-help guide wouldn’t that cover, like, hiding it? Don’t the government want to supress us, not leave us volatile.”

“It’s because they’re a bunch of wazzocks.” Anders hissed and took a deep gulp of his tea.

“You have never been more British than in this moment.” Hawke made grabby hands at the book, and Anders – sipping more civilly at his tea – passed it to him with a murmur of _page 63._

“Stress in the Modern Mage.” Hawke read aloud when he reached the right page, he skimmed hesitantly over the first few paragraphs, following the path of his finger. “In any human the effects of stress can be disheartening, yadda yadda, comparisons of mages to _normies_ ,” Hawke said that with venom on his tongue and really hoped Anders knew he was saying it ironically, “…because of this everyone needs to take care of themselves…blah blah…ah! Mages specifically must be aware of the after effects of extreme stress, anxiety or depressive qualities…oh boy.” he sighed loudly, “What does it mean if all three apply to me?”

“Keep reading.”

“…Alright. Um, stress will affect the strength, ability and reliability of one’s magic. It can be as insignificant as failing to perform to your best ability or as catastrophic as accidentally causing a cyclone.” Hawke snapped the book shut suddenly, twisting his mouth, “Anders, I already know all of this. It’s not telling me how to _stop_ myself from doing this. It’s telling me: you’re stressed, so is your magic. I know that!”

“Then there’s your answer.” Anders said, “Cut down stress.”

“Wow. Anders, you’re a real genius.”

“Shut up.”

Standing abruptly, Anders cast aside his tea cup and snatched the book from Hawke. He leafed through the pages, nose scrunched and eyes thinned.

“…Magic clots are a common occurrence.” he read softly, “What feels like the odd solidification of magic in your veins is something every mage will experience at least once in their life. It is easy to subdue these – they are most frequent in the palms of the hands, and simply flexing your fingers or clenching your fists can send them on their way again.”

“That’s what I had.” Hawke droned, thinking back to the shower of sparks that had exploded so radiantly from the street lamp he’d almost incapacitated. “I tried to get rid of it and it came out instead. Knocked a lamp out flat.”

Anders eyed him carefully, placing his middle and index fingers over a thick chunk of text.

“However there are times that this is not the case.” he continued, “Magic is as much a part of you as your blood and your brain, and should it not be properly cared for as the rest of your body is, there will be after effects.” he shot Hawke a venomous glance, “Lookin’ at you.”

“Keep talking, doc.” Hawke whined back.

“When you are sick your body will make you vomit in order to expel the bacteria,” ( _“Ew.”_ ) “and when you are stressed your magic will react in much the same way, expelling itself – sometimes violently – in order to reduce the pressure the rest of your body is under.”

Heaving a sigh, Hawke crumpled back into his position on the floor, scowling at the cat hair that tickled his nose. If he lifted his gaze just slightly he could see Ser Pounce-a-lot sitting in all his smug ginger glory on the windowsill.

“Well if its goal was to reduce my stress it did a bloody awful job.” Hawke bit, “I felt like I was ready to explode last night.”

Smiling sadly, Anders slipped his book back onto the shelf. He tapped his fingers of its creased spine – well loved, obviously. There was hesitance in the way Anders turned, resting his shoulders against the book shelf and linking his fingers together over his lap.

“I guess the point is…” his brow thickened with wrinkles as he thought, mouth twisting unpleasantly. “there’s nothing any of _us_ can do for you, Garrett. We’re always going to be there, of course we will but…if this is about the way _you_ feel the only way you can change it is by – well. Asking _you_. How do you think you’re going to get better?”

“I don’t know, Anders.” Hawke whispered to the floor, “I don’t know.”

 

 

Hawke’s phone was swamped with notifications by the time Anders had given him a long sympathy hug and sent him on his way. He stood in the gloomy stairwell of the apartment complex, staring blankly at his screen – five texts from Varric and a missed call from Fenris. He scrolled through the messages.

 

_HAWKE_

_BUDDY_

_OH MY GOD_

_GET HOME IMDIETLAY_

_****IMMEDIATELY_

He squinted at the thread whilst his phone redialled Fenris’ call, lodging it between his shoulder and his ear and as he began to thunder down the stairs again.

“Hello.” he heard from the other end of the phone. Fenris sounded tired. Hawke tried to contain a sigh.

“Hey.” he failed to contain the sigh. “Still sleepy?”

“I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t been rolling on top of me all night.”

“C’mon I already apologised about that – and! And you said you didn’t mind, so.”

Fenris laughed warmly and the noise made the hairs at the back of Hawke’s neck stand on end. He bit his lip as he shouldered his way out of the building.

“What does your friend think about what happened? Is it…is it serious?”

There was a choked quality to Fenris’ tone, and whether it was because he was scared for Hawke or because he was uncomfortable talking about magic it was hard to tell – either option made Hawke’s stomach gurgle like a septic tank.

“It’s not _serious_ serious per se.”

“Serious serious?”

“Yes, that is a term of phrase I have just now made up now let me finish.”

Fenris laughed and Hawke swelled with pride.

“Basically it’s…it’s literally just _stress_. And I know that’s the most pathetic way to put it but – really! That’s it!” Hawke raked his free hand over his face, “It’s like I said. I’m really messed, and it shows. Often.”

“I suppose it’s just a matter of self-care, then.” Fenris hummed softly, and Hawke nodded along. He glanced along the pavements, watching people walk in and out of shops and dodge out of each other’s paths. A woman walking two huge Labradors almost crashed into Hawke. He apologised out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah.” he said, hazarding a glance over his shoulder at the dogs. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just a lot of chocolate and beer and sleep for me.”

“I doubt alcohol should _technically_ be involved in a self-care routine.”

“Hush.” Hawke laughed, “Don’t ruin my fun…but, uh, I’ll be down later to pick up my stuff – okay? Sorry I had to leave the dog with you, Anders’ cat would have had a mental break down if I brought him with me.”

“It’s no trouble, Hawke. I promise.”

 

 

When Hawke barged into his apartment with a rumbling stomach and a twitchy eyelid he’d been planning on making himself a peanut butter sandwich and then taking a long nap. He made it about so far as taking off his jacket and heading to the kitchen, but his plans were cut short by a very enthusiastic Varric who practically catapulted himself out of the living room.

“Hawke - !!” he shrieked, and Hawke staggered both physically and mentally as Varric clung desperately to his back. How a man with such short legs was capable of jumping into a piggy back position he would never really be sure.

“Hello?” Hawke swung around in a circle, bending his arm back to wrap around Varric’s middle and drag him off his back. “Why are we yelling?”

Varric was hysteric, pressing his hands against his cheeks and wheezing in laughter. His shirt was wrinkled like he’d been in a rush when he put it on, he hadn’t bothered to tie his hair back. He looked as though maybe he’d just woken up.

“The, oh sweet Jesus on a boat, haha – “ he snorted and took a deep breath, composing himself before flashing Hawke a dazzling, toothy grin, “The order went through.”

“Oh piss.” Hawke deadpanned, and instinctively grabbed onto the radiator for support. “Are we rich now? Are we sugar daddies?”

A guffawing laugh exploded out of Varric, and he wrapped his thick fingers around Hawke’s wrist, tugging him to the kitchen. Files and papers were scattered over the sideboards, Varric’s trusty calculator on the kitchen table. It looked like someone had ransacked an office and then trampled over the chaos they’d caused.

“We talked it out,” Varric explained, heaving himself towards the kettle as if the thought of making himself a cup of tea was weighing him down. Hawke grabbed a box of teabags from the cupboard and set them down. “So originally it was two guys buying together, right? Well, two guys got friends, obviously, and a couple other guys came in wanting the same stuff as us, all for their huge, I don’t know, a rave or something, whatever. Basically, they didn’t really want to go with our original prices, mostly because they didn’t really know us, but they did say they would do some fair bartering. So we compared a gram of our stuff to a gram of cocaine. And basically we charge a little more than most cocaine dealers, but I did the math, and considering a gram of cocaine’s average selling price in the UK is £42, I let it slide. I did some adding up, and he wanted a big box – not like our little 50 and 70 ones of Lido - since we got between twenty and forty grams in each big box of our stuff, let’s say our average prices for a big box of anything are around £1200 – “

“Stop with the maths, just tell me what we’ve got.” Hawke crossed his arms, grinning anxiously against the tight seal of his gums. Varric pressed his lips together in a thin line of a smile, and slowly linked his fingers before levelling.

“He ordered 41 boxes for himself, and that rounds to about 50K.” Varric’s smile began cracking, hot air escaping quickly from his nose, “Then this guy’s friends – a big group of them, mind you – come in and say we want to order _a lot_ of stuff. So they split the money between themselves, there’s like, twenty guys in this group, and order around 32 boxes each, give or take, resulting in _800K_ from all of them.”

“Oh my God.”

“But it gets better.” Varric holds up his hands, spread wide as if offering some holy gift to Hawke. Honestly, this conversation is probably the closest he will ever get to being religious. The church of drugs and Varric. “Picked up a new regular, it seems. Got a call from a guy last night, he ordered a sampler box of Paschal for 60. I told him that it would be ready by next week, we get talking, and, as it turns out, he’s been looking for a dealer that does cheap samplers for years, and now he’s finally found us he’s probably gonna stick with us. Talking to this guy I found out that he doesn’t sniff all that regularly by himself, but he supplies to a lot of friends, and he’s most likely gonna be making at least three orders each month. So if he’s buying sampler boxes of sixty three times a month, that means we’ve got a settled income of 180 each month.” he stopped talking abruptly, taking a huge breath. His chest heaved and he laughed softly to himself, “Even if 180 doesn’t sound much it’s still a constant flow throughout the month and that can keep us going on low if we don’t get many other orders.”

“Jittery voice?” Hawke prodded, hiding his grin behind the reaching fingers of a hand, “Sounds a bit like someone’s holding him by the balls?”

“Ha, yeah, how’d you figure?” Varric leant forward, his palms smushing his face in odd angles.

“I hooked that guy up with his order last night,” Hawke nodded to himself, “told him Pashcal would be the best for his angle.”

 

“Partying on a Sunday, Hawke?” Varric raised his eyebrows, kidding in a way that he knew he, too, was thinking _wouldn’t Seb be disappointed._ “What a beast.”

Half way to grinning, Hawke watched as the kettle stopped boiling and Varric went to start making the tea, and then his head started hurting. The scab in his hair line was invisible when he let his fringe fall over his forehead, but it was there nonetheless.

“Did…did Isabela not tell you what happened last night?” his hand flew up subconsciously, pressing at the mark.

“I haven’t heard from Bela in a while.” Varric replied, he glanced over his shoulder. “Why? What shenanigans went on?”

“Uh.” Hawke pushed his fringe back, revealing the dark shiner on his forehead, “I may or may not have been jumped by a group of mage hating skinheads.”

“…oh.” Varric leant back against the kitchen counter, chewing on his lip. “Well,” he laughed to himself, “Obviously you showed them what for. Considering you’re still here and not wrapped in bandages.”

“I mean, I could take the limelight here and say that, yes, I smashed their heads in,” Hawke rubbed at his neck, “But, honestly, it was mostly just me lying on the floor and watching Isabela and Fenris kick ass.”

“Sounds like you.”

“Hey - !”

 

Hawke felt as though he were hyper aware of the money being shadily shifted around between hands, transferred to secret accounts, leaked in innocent looking amounts until it all sat safely within his and Varric’s shared account. That sent crackles up his spine – sensing an imaginary concept that, for once, was not actually there. Perhaps if he tried hard enough he could feel the money weighing down in his pockets, burning holes and fixing problems. He thought of being his friends’ own personal ATM, pound coins spitting from between his lips every time Merrill had to plaster another crack or Anders didn’t have enough for rent.

When his feet ghosted the threshold of Fenris’ apartment complex, the worn soles of his trainers tapping against the shoddily carpeted steps, he felt a physical tug which may well have been a burst of magic, but felt more like a magician’s scarf of woven notes being strung from his lungs.

He rapped on the door feeling the jingle of coins in his bones, and when Fenris opened the door only to wrap his hands around Hawke’s wrists and tug him inside, it all fell out in a metallic trickle of relief. Fenris pressed warm kisses against the intersection of his jaw and his jugular vein. The early summer air that broke through the day’s previous rain felt like a blanket that was, somehow, both determined to suffocate him, and gentle as the caress of a mother.

“How are you feeling?” Fenris had damp curls of Hawke’s hair stuck between his knuckles, and almost didn’t catch the amused mutter of _sweaty_ as Fenris pulled away to meet his eyes.

“…odd.” his chest trembled. “The order went through. I can’t stop thinking about money. What was that musical where there was a kind of inappropriate number about the American Dream? I can’t remember. But I’ve got that stuck in my head. Now I just need to adopt by Gatsby persona and revel in my riches.”

“Please don’t make yourself a Gatsby persona.” Fenris smiled, “He had an awful love life and was shot at 32.”

“Why do you know his age?”

“English degree.”

“Oh.”

 

Scouting Fenris’ apartment, Hawke found the holdall he’d prepared stowed away beneath the desk in Fenris’ bedroom. Barkimedes was asleep on the pillow, for which Hawke scolded him for, but Fenris simply brushed off. He rubbed Barkimedes’ too big ears affectionately, and the familiar burst of _oh boy_ in Hawke’s left side brain could finally find its output. He kissed his temple – listened for the low rumble that had made his toes curl the night before – and unquestioningly let Fenris guide him to the living room. With a gentle push they ended up curled around each other on the sofa, Hawke’s legs hanging from the armrest and Fenris disappearing within the cushion crease.

“I don’t wish to keep you…” Fenris began, “If you need to be home soon I have no issue with you leaving.”

“Oh, I – “ Fenris’ tone twangs a note and he crumples slightly, “I’ll stay. If…if that’s okay with you - ?”

Fenris did not say anything, but he did swing his torso in an arch, elbows firmly placed around Hawke’s ears. From this angle Hawke could see the bite marks he’d left across Fenris’ angular clavicles, the rich colours of overripe peaches, the flesh of a well grown plum.

He swears it was not his fault when he ended up swiping his tongue over them again, and then everywhere else. He can feel Fenris’ body as a solid mass against his own, for once it doesn’t come it in his head as an overdrawn metaphor that makes no sense and makes his heart race. It was a thrilling experience, and he sat there motionless for a while, letting Fenris curl his fingers and work his mouth, wondering why he hadn’t simply slipped Fenris his number without first becoming his impromptu one time dealer.

Hawke’s phone buzzed, Fenris pulled away, wiping his mouth.

“You should get that.”

Glowing angrily, Hawke’s screen hurts his eyes in the dim light. The sun had already begun to set outside, the evening’s brief warmness scurrying away again the make way for rain.

He swipes his lock to reveal a message from Carver.

 

_Mum’s gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> split the final chapter into two because  
> 1\. my copy of overwatch arrived so, i know where a lot of my time is going  
> 2\. im tryin to get my Reaper cosplay finished AGES before con day so im not angsting over it  
> 3\. this is Too Much
> 
> (my approximate knowledge of drug dealing comes from scans and screen-caps of articles from the Deep Web that is it.)


	18. Chapter 18

( _\- the truth was Garrett Hawke was a disaster magnet. The truth was Garrett Hawke didn’t care what he was getting into as long as there was something in it for him. The truth was Garrett Hawke yellowed at nothing, and the day he took the coward’s road was the day he pressed money into a stranger’s palm and had them hit him square in the skull with a shovel -_ )

 

“I never understood,” Hawke swung his hands at the ceiling in tandem with the swinging sensation in his skull. The tears stung enough to blur his vision, and his head was tilted at just the right angle for them to fall in insincere tracks across his cheekbones. “That…Chaos Theory. Thing.” he sniffed, feeling an emptiness in his chest, the stomach acid rising until it became bile underneath his tongue. He turned his head and grinned, weakly, teeth grinding, “Hey…English Degree.”

“Chaos Theory is mathematics, technically, Hawke.” Fenris smiled sadly, fingers in Hawke’s hair. The sofa creaked every time they moved, pressed and linear against each other. It groaned for their presence. “But, it’s…almost the same as the Butterfly Theory. That is to say, the idea that – “

“Small things lead to big things.” Hawke finished, and his voice cracked like a bullet making contact with a sheet of glass. Splintering in a spiderweb spread across it surface, Hawke felt he was choking on the shards of a metaphor.

“Yes,” the swollen pads of Fenris’ fingers pressed into his scalp, rubbing circles. “That’s how it works.”

“What…constitutes as a small thing?” Hawke said.

“I suppose anything,” Fenris shifted, Hawke’s head turning in his lap. The sofa whined again and a spring bent harshly between Hawke’s shoulder blades. “What makes the first instance small is the eventual size of the result. A tornado could be considered small if it resulted in the destruction of a planet.”

“Could a birth be small?”

“Maybe.”

Another shift, and Hawke rolled until his shoulders pulled uncomfortably and his face pressed soft cheeked to Fenris’ naval.

“Case example:” he muttered against the spread of his skin that appeared when he tugged at the hem of Fenris’ shirt. “My birth.”

“To someone who doesn’t know you?” Fenris snaked his left arm around Hawke’s neck, the right resting palm up beside the small of his back. “Inconsequential.”

“Comforting.”

“To me?” his voice grew hushed, and Hawke – anticipating the continuation – curled into Fenris until the blanket he’d woefully pulled around himself began to resemble a womb. “Larger than life.”

 

 

In his twenty five years of life, Hawke had seen a mage set fire to a line of cocaine in their basement; mirthlessly called _chug chug chug_ over an undulating crowd of druggies as an underage art student downed a water bottle filled with DHMP; and unknowingly helped an alcoholic kick his addiction by offering him a warm cup of hot chocolate every morning before classes started in university.

But nothing would ever impress him as much as a family’s ability to knit themselves together after death.

Miraculous, perhaps, that Leandra Hawke’s funeral would lead Hawke to seeing cousins he’d forgotten he had, cuddled away beneath a yew tree’s branches as it began to rain. Even Gamlen looked softer, and though there was no denying that he would have been there no matter what, Hawke was always astounded by the fact that sometimes his uncle did show a shred of human decency.

Even more so, it seemed that divine intervention had been leading Hawke by a harness and collar for those last three weeks. The days leading to the funeral had been sun bleached, by no means cold or distant, but bleak and surreal. He had imagined the night he found out – when he’d sunk into bed feeling like hard light – that he would forget what living felt like that, that he would slowly phase out of reality until the clock ticked over and he was standing above the casket, mum’s face pale and her hands laced in her lap.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The entire world felt hyper-real, like fizzing tubes of neon light on the walls of dingy nightclubs, or saturated perfume samplers in strips of magazine paper. Everything he looked at rang with nostalgia, as if the bottle of cream soda he picked up at Tesco Express was the same brand his father used to buy for special occasions, or the scented candles Merrill and Isabela had ordered for him were the same type his mother burnt on her dresser.

Isabela and Varric had been there when, begrudgingly, he was dragged to be fitted for a new suit - one that wasn’t the slightly too tight grey jacket and tie that his father had left behind in a dusty wardrobe. Isabela had smiled sadly over his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist as he recalled wearing his old number at Bethany’s funeral. The new one was black, with the same broadness in the shoulders but more leeway in the waist – his father had always been slight.

And, somehow, now Hawke had become his father.

 

( _\- “there’s a chance it will take after me.”_ _Had been the warning, twenty five years and seven months prior, when Malcolm Hawke had lain his head against Leandra’s swollen belly and pretended he didn’t feel the electricity tingling between his cheek and the womb - )_

 

The casket viewing had seemed voyeuristic, like looking in on a lady when she was getting ready for a big night out. But his mother had been dressed in a champagne coloured Beatrice dress by an undertaker, her hair draped gracefully over her shoulders by the gloved hands of a stranger. It was stiff and waxy and so unreal that Hawke had expectations of masked figures to emerge from the walls and slowly feed lilac into his mother’s slack mouth, reciting Latin poetry under their breath.

There was no cult appearance, however, and his mother had no lilac or any other purple flower lain against her tongue.

Rain and coolness hitting his face had calmed him down, and as he followed the procession into the cemetery he thought about how much willpower it would take to decline any drink offered to him.

He began counting his blessings.

“It’s like she’s here, isn’t it.” Carver had his tie clutched haggardly between his sun tanned fingers. Hawke had been holding in tears since that morning, but when he’d stumbled gracelessly into a funeral car to be squashed against his brother in the middle seat he’d sobbed openly at the lack of oil over Carver’s knuckles. They were grey now, but that was from the bruise he’d given himself – pushing his fists too hard against the car door to form some sort of anchor.

Hawke stared into the burial vault, feeling similarly empty as the rain pattered down into the soil. He noted down the words _pathetic fallacy_ in his head and reminded himself to peel this off to Varric in a spiel of sobs and rushed shots.

“For once.” he muttered, and felt Carver’s elbow in his ribs.

It was not unkind, in fact, it was barely more than a brush. A prod rather than a jab.

Dragging his gaze from the green surrounding the vault, he met eyes with Carver, who had never looked more like Bethany than in this moment.

“I’d go on at you for that.” he squished the words out of the corner of his mouth, as if he wasn’t sure he really wanted to say them. “But…yeah. You’re kind of right. Even if it sucks to admit it.”

“What, about mum or just the fact that I’m right?”

“Both.”

Their snickers were quietened, low in respect and maudlin denial, but they carried over the graveyard in a way that felt like no one had ever laughed at a funeral before. Hawke had that same feeling, that same bright, halogen light bulb flash back to Isabela’s birthday drinking party when Carver had been slurring and grinning and laughing stupidly at everything Merrill said. There was little here Hawke could really compare that too, but whilst the heat in Isabela’s kitchen had caused the downy locks at Carver’s hairline to curl, now it was the beading cold sweat just above his brow.

All three Hawke siblings did – had done – that. In the heat their hair grew uncontrollable, curly and wild and glistening. Carver tried to tamper it down with hair gel, whilst Bethany had tugged a baby blue hair brush through her frizz every morning. Hawke was the sibling who left his hair naturally curly. Like his father’s sheepy hair and beard.

His mother’s hair had always been perfect and straight, not a tress out of place.

He’d thought that when he’d watched the casket lid slide down.

“Don’t you think funerals are weird.” Hawke hissed through his teeth. It had grown cold since the rain set in, and though it was a weak spray he could already feel the dampness in his clothes.

“No – why?” Carver said.

“We close our loved ones up in a box,” Hawke began, “We give them flowers or photographs or whatever – even though they can’t enjoy them anymore – and then we lower them into the ground.”

“There’s, like, a point though, isn’t there?” Carver hummed, “I can’t remember anything we learnt in RS but I’m sure there’s a symbolic thing about the burial.”

“The only thing I like about it is that we’re giving back.” Carver gave him an odd look, “I mean, we’re going into the earth. We’re feeding the worms. Once you die you become a part of the soil and I think that’s…kind of nice.”

“You’re so weird.”

“…thanks.”

It had been a long time since the Hawke brothers hugged each other, but neither had ever needed it quite so much.

 

 

Aveline was at the wake, an oily bottle of cider in hand, dressed in sombre grey and waiting with a patient smile. Sitting beside her, Hawke felt the weight of worlds dissolve from his shoulders like dish-soap. She – in true Shakespearian fashion – was the copper haired sun, in that everything revolved around her, and seemed to live for her presence.

The benches furthest from her were the greyest.

“All those things you said about your mother,” Hawke had never had a therapist, never wanted one, but Aveline had a voice like the crunching of apples or the slow cooking of lean meat, and that made him hang from every word, “How do you feel about them now?”

“The same.” Hawke admitted, and curled his fingers as if to reach for a glass. He had not bought himself a drink, couldn’t trust himself. “I’m…shocked that she’s gone, of course. But. Also numb. I’m numb.”

“Numb?” Aveline tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, “I’m not sure what you mean, Hawke.”

“I talked to Fenris about Chaos Theory a few weeks ago.” Hawke forewent an explanation, and he could see the agitation fade to acceptance in Aveline’s gaze. She went from crossed-arms consoler to folded hands listener. “And he said…he said how even if the idea is that big consequences can be the result of something tiny, the size doesn’t really matter as long as the end result is huge.”

“I see.”

“Because the size is relevant, right?” Hawke could feel his own eyes widening, “He said a tornado could be small if the world ended. So like, if a twister just swung through right now and all of us died it would be totally meaningless if the world blew up.”

“Well so would anything.” Aveline said, reaching out. Her hand was tentative as it came to rest against Hawke’s upturned palm. She did not curl her fingers. Hawke breathed out heavily.

“What I mean is,” scrubbing his free hand against his cheek, he looked up. “My mum is dead now. In relation to when I stubbed my toe on a table the other day, it’s huge. But at the same time, Varric and I now have enough money to support ourselves and our friends, and that’s _so_ important. So, if she’s now dead, and things are going to keep happening, I can be almost completely sure that something will happen that is big. Bigger than this.” a sigh escaped him in a shaky, almost solid breath. It was frigid, but the heat in the back of his throat melted it in the atmosphere. “Because the point of Chaos Theory is that it keeps going. And I think…I think – “

“Take your time, Hawke.” Aveline, ever vigilant, picked up lightning quick on the tremor in Hawke’s tone. “It’s okay.”

“…I think I can too.”

 

 

At six Hawke’s phone began vibrating, beside the carton of cigarettes in his pocket. Deciding this is God’s way of telling him he needs a smoke break, Hawke pushed gently away from the wake and lit a cigarette beneath the stone porch of a pub.

He chewed on the end of the smoke as he answered the phone, “…you were invited, you know.”

“I know.” Fenris’ voice sounded unmistakably molten over the wavelengths of the conversation, “I also know that it was not my place. I’d never even met her.”

“…what if I’d needed you for support.” the inflection is flat, and Hawke and Fenris alike knew.

“You and I both know this is something you needed to face alone.”

“Yeah…” smoke escaped on Hawke’s tongue as he sighed, and Fenris chuckled.

“You’re smoking, aren’t you?”

“How could you tell?” he smiled.

“I know you too well.”

“Hmph.”

Neither of them spoke, and it was a gentle blessing.

The sky was still overcast, but a pale shade that boasted summer dragging itself through a watery start to the year. Floating, not falling, the rain looked like dust motes. Grey, the streets shone. Hawke felt like the day of his mother’s funeral was made to emulate that of his father’s. He hoped he’d be buried somewhere in the sun.

“So what are you going to do now?” Fenris said finally.

“Hmm?” Hawke threw his cigarette to the ground, watched it sizzle in a shallow brown puddle.

“I suppose I mean,” a sigh crackled over the line, “This last month or so it feels like your mother’s…presence has been fuelling you.” he laughed, unexpectedly, “Chaos Theory, Hawke – you ended up sleeping on my sofa because of her. You were knocked out because of her. So…what now?”

Breath strung, Hawke pursed his lips towards the receiver. The words on his tongue were lead.

“Well,” for the first time in who knows how long, Hawke felt like his voice couldn’t be lost to the rain, “I think it’s about time I get over it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking around  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8twpQTna_9w

**Author's Note:**

> this wont be regular, chapters will be published as and when i finish them.


End file.
